Cupid's Cove
by Spockaholic
Summary: Kirk and Spock are mistaken for lovers and sent to spend their shore leave at a tacky couples resort. Slashiness is the only logical outcome. Abandon hope of het fic, all ye who enter here.
1. Chapter 1

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**Hello and welcome to my slashy romp through the Land of Awkward Romantic Tension! I have to warn you from the get-go: this story is ridiculously silly and the plotline is probably nothing more than "Starfleet meets Harlequin Romance," but I hope you enjoy it all the same. I'm having a blast writing it so far, and it's been a good exercise in me learning not to take myself too seriously. That being said, I do take the K/S relationship VERY seriously, and I hope that this story will eventually reflect that. If you don't like slash, schmoop, or weird men in diapers, you might want to consider clicking on a different story, but you're more than welcome to tough it out for as long as you can. As any writer can understand, receiving feedback has amazing power to keep you going, especially on the days when you want to give up. There. I've said my "please review" bit. I will never bring it up again, promise! So now that I've said my piece..."RELEASE THE SPIRKIN'!"**

**...Oh, and I don't own Star Trek and all that fun stuff.  
**

_Personal log: Stardate 6157.5. The Enterprise is currently in orbit around Jaris II. Doctor McCoy and his staff are attending a two-day medical conference, leaving the rest of us to enjoy some much needed down-time. As a token of gratitude for letting them "borrow" the doctor, the Head of the Jarillian Medical Research Initiative has personally arranged for Mr. Spock and myself to spend our shore leave at a luxury Terran-themed resort. Although I would much rather plan my own vacations, I appreciate both the gesture and the opportunity to enjoy the company of my First Officer. _

Jim's internal alert signal—born from a combination of natural intuition and Starfleet experience—flared to "condition yellow" immediately after he materialized on the welcoming platform with Spock. He supposed it was the only natural reaction to being greeted with the sight of a grinning man in a diaper.

"Greetings, honored Kirkspock, and welcome to _Cupid's Cove._"

The diapered man bowed unctuously, revealing a quiver of sparkly red arrows and a small pair of artificial wings strapped to his back.

_Jarillian, _Jim thought, noting the starburst-shaped pupils in his eyes.

"My name is Droovin and I will be serving as your personal 'Romance Concierge' during your stay." His sprawling smile widened."If you should require anything to enhance the pleasure of your vacation, please do not hesitate to let me know. I have received special training in providing for the needs of inamoratos."

The klaxon in Jim's brain wailed like a spanked newborn.

_Red Alert!_

Spock tilted his head inquisitively.

"Inamoratos, Captain?"

"It's an old Italian word, Spock. It means..." Jim's Adam's apple bobbed in a massive effort to swallow the tension lodged in his throat. "it means..."

"Male lovers!" Droovin crowed gleefully. "A beautiful word, indeed." He nodded his head vigorously, his flaxen curls bouncing in agreement.

The Vulcan's right eyebrow levitated. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but was halted by a brief, white flash. A smiling woman beind a large desk was brandishing an ancient-looking camera. Blinking the spots from his vision, Jim returned his attention to Droovin.

"I apologize if there's been some confusion, but my First Officer and I are _not_ lovers."

Droovin's smile, which had not faltered since their arrival, only lengthened.

"I understand completely, sir. You can count on our discretion." He put his forefinger to his lip and winked.

Jim suppressed a shudder. No amount of diplomatic training or diversity appreciation could stamp out the inherent creepiness of being winked at by winged men in nappies.

"No, I _don't_ think you understand, _sir_; we really aren't..."

"If you would please follow me, I will now show you to your room." Droovin rubbed his hands together and pointed in a vague direction. "Onward, gentlemen, to the boudoir!" He winked again and pivoted on his heels.

Throwing a helpless look at Spock, Jim followed after the Romance Concierge, watching the fake wings on his back flounce up and down with each stride. As he half-listened to the merry prattle about the history and features of _Cupid's Cove, _two lines of thought battled for dominance in his mind:

_This is the LAST time I let someone else handle my shore leave arrangements! A_nd: _What the hell do we do now?_

Not that he hadn't imagined his fair share of "romantic getaway with Spock" scenarios over the years, but no amount of fantasizing could've prepared him for the enormity of the real thing. It was like coming face to face with a live elephant for the first time after years of looking at holographic miniatures.

Not to mention the fact that an overgrown cherub was riding the elephant in the room.

"Here we are, gentlemen!"

They came to a stop at a pair of thick double doors in a cheerfully lit hallway. Droovin turned his attention to a keypad near the doornob and punched in a series of buttons.

"Each button has a corresponding letter of the Terran alphabet printed on it. Your personal access code for the lock-release is 'lovebirds.' If you forget it, you can have me summoned through the front desk and I will be happy to remind you." He tapped a final button and an audible _click_ sounded from the other side of the door.

"And now I present to you...your _love nest_!"

He flung the doors open and gestured towards the interior with a flourish of the wrist.

Jim shot Spock a wry look.

"Well, Mr. Spock, aren't you gonna carry me over the threshold?" he quipped

"With all due respect, Captain, that would not be neccessary or practical. You are not physically incapacitated in any way, and I am already carrying our luggage."

Beside them, Droovin unleashed a flurry of disapproving _tsks._

"Oh _my_! It looks like _someone_ could use an extra sprinkle of love dust."

Spock drew himself up with great dignity.

"Sir, I must respectfully decline."

An airy giggle floated out from the man-cherub's lips.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is time for me to take my departure," he said breezily, "Please enjoy the complimentary fruit basket on the vanity table and be sure to have a look through the _Romance Itinerary _on the foot of your bed."

He turned his attention to Jim, and finally dropped the smile he'd been wearing since their arrival. He looked directly into Jim's eyes.

"Give him time, Mr. Kirkspock." he said kindly.

With that, the frazzled rope of Jim's patience came unwraveled.

"Look." He had to fight to keep from raising his voice. "I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but there's been a huge misunderstanding. There is no _Kirkspock,_ or whatever you want to call us—there is only Kirk _and_ Spock. We've been booked in at the wrong resort...we are_ not_ a couple!"

Impossibly, the grin resurfaced, wider than ever. Jim was almost surprised that it didn't wrap all the way around to the back of his head.

"Yet." A definite note of smugness had crept into the Jarillian's voice. "Love may be blind as you humans claim, Mr. _Kirkspock,_ but it is easy to see when you know how to look."

With that, he spun around and minced down the hallway, throwing Jim a parting wink over his shoulder. Human and Vulcan gaped wordlessly at the retreating cherub, the silence in the wake of his departure broken only by the diminishing _crinkle _of his diaper.


	2. Chapter 2

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**Just a heads up, this is the point where the double entendres and questionable humor makes its grand debut. What can I say? They're in a honeymoon suite and I'm a bit of an odd duck...**

**Due to the odd-duckish-ness of this story, I think it's fairly obvious that I don't own Star Trek :)  
**

"That. Was. Bizarre." Jim locked the door behind him and leaned against it heavily.

"Indeed," Spock concured, setting the luggage down on the carpet.

No amount of pizza before bedtime could even come close to producing a dream as surreal as those last ten minutes had been!

"Captain."

Spock looked at him solemnly.

"I have reason to believe that this is a vacation resort intended exclusively for couples."

"Really, Spock? What was your first clue?" He held up a hand to forestall the Vulcan's impending answer. "No, don't answer that." He sighed and coasted a hand through his hair.

"Tell me, Spock: how the hell does a starship captain and his First Officer get mistaken for a couple and booked in at a honeymoon suite?"

"I believe we have Doctor McCoy to thank for that." Jim raised his eyebrows inquisitively and he continued.

"If you will recall our arrival at the convention centre, the good doctor erroneously introduced us to the Head of the Jarillian Medical Reasearch Initiative as 'the old married couple.' It was shortly afterwards that she insisted on providing us with shore leave accommodations."

Jim's eyes widened in incredulity.

"Jesus, Spock! It was a _joke! _Bones didn't mean for her to take him seriously."

"You forget that humor isn't universally acknowledged, even amongst humanoids. I myself have difficulties in understanding it. Furthermore, in Jarillian culture the concept of having a bondmate is held in the highest esteem—almost to the point of reverence."

Jim scowled and indulged in a mental image of stuffing McCoy into an escape pod and jettisoning him across the Romulan Neutral Zone.

"So now what are we supposed to do?"

"Might I suggest that we start with unpacking our suitcases?" Spock put in mildly. Jim gaped at him. The rich brown eyes flickered with gentle humor.

And just like that, the tension on the surface shattered and released Jim's laughter, like an egg yoke liberated from its shell.

"My God, Spock!" he gasped, tears of mirth pricking his eyes, "It's like we beamed into Hell on Valentine's Day!"

Ignoring Spock's negative appraisal of the logic of his statement, Jim began a walking inspection of their suite.

Four-poster canopy bed? _Check. _Fireplace? _Check._ Heart-shaped whirlpool? _Check. _Ridiculously attractive love-of-his-life at his side? _Check._ Possibility of having romantic liaisons with ridiculously attractive love-of-his-life? He pilfered a glance at the grim-faced Vulcan and smiled wryly. _ Not a chance. _Hell on Valentine's Day, indeed.

A fraction of a moment later, Spock joined him in his survey of the room.

"Curious." he muttered, eyeing the rose petals scattered all over the bed.

_Curious, indeed. _

The Vulcan swung his eyes toward the ceiling and frowned.

"I fail to see the efficiency in mounting a mirror above a bed."

Jim smiled mischievously.

"Mr. Spock, I believe it is used so you can see the efficiency of the mounting _in_ the bed."

Predictably, the Vulcan's eyebrow soared towards his scalp. Chuckling to himself, Jim meandered over to the end table near the bed and withdrew a long-stemmed rose from the ceramic vase.

"Spock."

Spock turned around and was greeted with the sight of his commanding officer staring intensely at him, the rose clenched between his teeth.

"Hey gorgeous, ya come here often?" The flower wobbled precariously with every syllable. Spock eyed him sternly.

"Negative."

Jim released a loud bray of laughter, propelling the rose from his mouth. It fluttered soundlessly to the carpet. Spock rolled his eyes and bent to retrieve it, presenting Jim with an overhead view of his backside. He averted his eyes quickly—best not to go down _that_ thought path or it was going to be a long stay.

"Captain." Spock straightened to his full height and deftly removed a piece of carpet lint from the stem of the rose.

"Am I correct in assuming that you have no wish to alter our shore leave?"

Jim regarded his friend pensively. One one hand, a cheesy couple's resort was the last place he'd expected to visit with his Science Officer. On the other hand, how many _other _places had been the last place he'd expected to visit with Spock? He would take this over a Nazi-style prison any day!

At least here, the whips and handcuffs would be optional.

His last four years aboard the _Enterprise_ had been comprised of little more than visiting bizarre places—with Spock—and getting in and out of equally bizarre situations—with Spock. Everything with Spock. Always Spock.

Scattered rose petals and creepy Cupids aside, it hit him that maybe he _did_ want to stay. Maybe it was because he was a masochist at heart. Maybe this was material for a great story to regale Scotty and Bones with in the mess hall. Maybe he just needed the ego-stroke of knowing that he could adapt to any given situation and come out on top.

Maybe he would take any chance he could get to have his First Officer all to himself.

Seeing his hesitation, Spock moved to stand beside him.

"You _are, _of course,aware that if we stay, it will give the staff and other patrons the impression that we are in a sexual relationship."

Trying to appear casual about the fact that he was standing in a honeymoon suite—near a very large bed—with a very attractive, very _Vulcan _man who had just uttered a sentence containing the words "we are in a sexual relationship," Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"Spock, I don't know if you've noticed, but you and I have a history of mistaken identities when we visit new worlds. Quite frankly, being mistaken for lovers would be a welcome change from the usual criminal, invader or god scenario."

A brief flash of amusement crossed Spock's face. Jim threw him a sidelong glance and decided to go for the kill.

"But that's just my own opinion; I understand completely if it's too embarrassing for you..."

The Vulcan's posture straightened so severely that Jim half-expected to hear his spinal cord snap.

"Captain, I need hardly remind you that Vulcans are not vulnerable to that particular emotion."

"Then there's no problem, right?" Jim pressed on before Spock could answer. "If anything, you could think of it as field research on the psychological effect of a romantic environment on human couples."

"You can be assured, Captain that I have already been afforded sufficient opportunity to observe those 'psychological effects' during my service aboard the _Enterprise,_ and I have no particular need or desire to study them further."

Spock's cool gaze lingered on him just long enough for Jim to have to resist the urge to squirm. A procession of beautiful women began a frenzied march through his brain. How many times had Spock watched from the sidelines as he charmed (or manipulated) a beaufiful face into simpering adoration? He'd always just assumed that the Vulcan found his dalliances to be slightly amusing—more evidence of the illogical nature of humans. The clipped voice and reproachful glance certainly did not lend well to that theory.

Spock returned the rose to its former home in the vase, trailing the crimson petals with a slender finger before returning his attention to Jim.

"However..." The brandy colored eyes had thawed a few degrees. "If you are merely devising arguments in an effort to persuade me simply because you _wish_ to stay, you needn't bother. I have already consented to accompanying you for the duration of our shore leave; where we spend it is irrelevant."

A sheepish grin crept over Jim's face. So much for bullshitting the Vulcan.

"You're really okay with this? You don't mind if people get the wrong idea about us?"

Spock's mouth tightened in mock severity.

"Aside from the dubious ethics involved?"

He tilted his head slightly and regarded Jim with an appraising glance. His mouth softened into a ghost of a smile.

"Captain...Jim. You are a decorated officer, an exemplary leader, and a man of integrity. If we are perceived as bondmates—however incorrectly—it can only be to my credit."

It was all Jim could do to prevent himself from drawing in a sharp intake of breath. Vulcan or not, there was no mistaking the fondness buried in the rich timbre of Spock's voice. An invisible fist curled around his throat and squeezed gently.

"Spock..."

He took a step towards his friend.

"It is illogical to dwell on the misconceptions of others, especially when we ourselves know that we are not—and will never be—sexually involved."

He froze in his tracks.

_Damn. Spock-blocked!_

"Glad we're clear on that Mr. Spock," he muttered. His lip twisted sardonically. "So with _that_ out of the way, how about finding something to eat? I don't think that complimentary fruit basket is going to cut it for me."

"Agreed." Spock shuffled to the foot of the bed and picked up the _romance itinerary, _scanning its contents.

"It would appear that the luncheon in the dining establishment is featuring a 'Love Buffet.' Is that acceptable?"

"_Love Buffet?_" Jim rolled his eyes. "I suppose we're committed to this thing now, aren't we." He slapped his hands together and pointed in a vague direction. "Alright then, Mr. Spock; I hope you're hungry for love, because after we unpack, we are going to the_ Love Buffet_!"

"Captian, it is physiologically impossible to ingest an emotion..."

Jim was still laughing when they exited the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**Nothing too interesting to report here; this is pretty much just a filler/transition/character introduction chapter—they're not my favorite to write (or read) but sometimes they gotta happen before you can get to the more interesting stuff. This story is going somewhere eventually...I promise!  
**

**A million hugs and thank-yous to the kind souls who took the time to review and click on the "Story Alert" button...now that I know there are some people out there who are actually interested, it's so much easier to resist the call of the X-Box 360 and keep writing :D**

**Warnings for pervy humor and fluff. **

**I don't own Star Trek, and am not writing this for profit...the only thing I gain from the writing of this story is some weird sense of wish-fulfillment... * sighs***

**This chapter is dedicated to my amazing K/S friends on Facebook who encouraged me to keep going, even when I was going through a huge bout of writer's remorse. You guys rule the world!**

Jim reached into the glass dish on the table and pulled out a small heart-shaped candy. A slow smile spread across his face when he examined the tiny letters inscribed on its surface. He leaned across the table and stared intently into his First Officer's eyes.

"_Kiss me_," he murmured.

Spock's eyebrow floated up his forehead in response. Jim added the candy to the top of the steadily growing stack beside the pepper dispenser.

He waited for the Vulcan's eyebrow to finish its descent before extracting another candy from the dish.

"_True love_."

_Whoosh. _Up went the eyebrow.

Spock glanced at him wearily.

"I fail to understand the merit of this activity."

Jim chuckled.

"I'm just getting you acquainted with part of your human heritage, Mr. Spock." he replied easily, "These things have been around for centuries."

He picked up another candy, inspected it.

"_Be my hero_."

_...and we have liftoff!_

The eyebrow rocketed toward Spock's fringe with an accompanying eye-roll.

Jim slid the candy dish over to Spock's side of the table.

"Your turn."

When Spock didn't acknowledge him, he arranged his features into his most supplicating expression.

"_Please?_"

A flicker of uncertainty crossed over the Vulcan's features. Jim increased the intensity of his smile.

"If I must." Spock picked up a candy, eyeballed the writing and grimaced ever-so-slightly.

"Yum yum." he read in a soulless voice. He glared at Jim as if he were personally responsible for the offending caption. "Highly illogical."

He waited for the peals of human laughter to subside before speaking again.

"If you are quite finished with reinforcing my decision to follow my _Vulcan_ heritage, I suggest that we join the buffet line before more patrons arrive."

Deciding that he had subjected Spock to enough frivolity for the time being, Jim acquiesced and they took their places in the food line. He had to smother a smirk at the odd mishmash of foods presented on the side dish table. Oysters, figs, avocados, truffles, almonds—evidently the Jarillians had been quite thorough in their research of traditional Terran aphrodisiacs. _Love buffet_ indeed. Throwing a slightly guilty glance at Spock, he loaded his plate with a pile of asparagus spears.

_Mmm...green._ He smiled wickedly.

They ate in amiable silence. Jim's lips curved in affection as he watched Spock meticulously slicing his grilled eggplant into nearly uniform pieces. The concentration in the deep-set eyes was no less than if he had been examining some tricorder readings. It really was amazing how diligence seemed to come as easily to the man as easily as breathing. Vulcan bloodlines and pedigree aside, excellence was just part of who Spock was.

Funny to think that this excellent creature had allowed himself to be dragged to a place like this. He didn't know whether to feel extremely amused or extremely humbled.

Moments later he rose from his seat.

"Dessert time," he explained when Spock looked at him quizzically. "Can I bring you something?"

"I do not believe I require any more food at the present, thank you."

"C'mon Spock, you're on vacation! Go ahead and indulge—I won't tell anyone."

Spock snuck a glance at the dessert table, looking for all the world like the Vulcan equivalent of a schoolboy about to peek at his first nude magazine.

"Very well, Jim." he said magnanimously, "You may bring me a piece of fruit."

"Attaboy, Spock...way to live dangerously."

Jim gave the Vulcan a fond smile and departed for the dessert table, his eyes homing in on a large slice of chocolate cheesecake.

A rough hand grabbed his wrist when he reached for it.

"I'd think twice about that, son."

"Excuse me?"

Whirling to confront his assailant, Jim came face to beard with a wild-haired man with a belly that looked like it could comfortably house a full-grown Horta. He frowned at Jim sternly.

"First time here? Here's some advice for free: unless you got some kind of grudge against your bowels, you'll want to stay far away from the cheesecake."

A blush stole across Jim's face.

"I appreciate the, uh, warning," he stammered, forcing his mouth into an unnatural smile. The bearded man released his grip on Jim's wrist and extended his hand.

"Norman Stone,"

"James Kirk."

They shook hands briskly.

"You on your honeymoon? You've got that lovestruck rookie look to you."

"Just vacationing, actually," Jim stammered, torn between amusement and indignation.

His eyes flicked briefly in Spock's direction. "Long story." he muttered, his voice trailing off.

He gave the man a dismissive smile and returned his attention to the spread of desserts on the table.

"If you want my personal recommendation..."

Jim looked up patiently. He had a feeling that this was the kind of guy who would give you his personal recommendation, whether you wanted it or not.

"...you're best off going with the pudding. It's not the flashiest dessert, but it's the about only one on this table that won't muck up your love life." He smiled grimly. "I don't know what those Jarillians do the rest of this stuff, but eat it and I guarantee the only thing you'll be straddling tonight is the crapper."

Acutely aware of the lineup of people—presumably with excellent hearing—that had formed behind them, Jim snatched a pudding dish and shuffled down to end of the table. Norman Stone followed suit.

_Looks like I've made a friend, _Jim thought wearily.

"So which one is your sweetie? Point her out to me."

Jim bit back a grin at the thought of the word "sweetie" being applied to his stern-faced Science Officer. He picked up a banana from the fruit platter and pointed it in Spock's direction.

"That's _him _over there—the one with the ears."

Norman's eyes widened.

"Vulcan, huh? I bet_ that's_ a party and a half." He fired another glance at Spock then shook his head in bemusement. "Ornery-looking cuss, isn't he?"

"You should see him when he _isn't_ wearing his happy face."

Norman chuckled appreciatively, a keen glint in his eyes.

"Vulcan," he repeated, "Damn. That's gotta be a first for this place—you're making history, son."

"I suppose I should stop talking at you and get back to my Joanie. Good luck with your fellow, James Kirk. He must be one hell of a Vulcan to come to a place like this. You be sure to treat him good."

They exchanged parting nods and Jim returned to his table, where Spock sat primly, waiting. Catching his eye, Jim brandished the banana at Spock's chest.

"Careful Mr. Spock; this thing is on _stun._"

Spock regarded him with a decidedly haughty expression on his face.

"Ah yes, I have heard that it is common for human _children _to draw comparisons between bananas and phasers. _Most_ children grow out of it."

Jim handed the banana to his friend with a smirk. Unable to resist, he lowered his voice suggestively.

"Would you rather I showed you what the _grown-ups _think of when they see these things?"

After a few heartbeats of complete silence, the Vulcan shot him a withering look.

"That will not be necessary." he huffed.

"Suit yourself. Sometimes a banana is just a banana, right?" Jim took his seat at the table and fixed him with a licentious smile.

"Enjoy your uh, _banana_, Mr. Spock."

He set his dessert down and lifted a candy heart from the top of the stack he had made. Casually he flicked it across the table, watching it roll until it bounced off Spock's water glass, landing face up. Spock's eyes drifted downward to read the tiny inscription:

_Yum yum._

Jim bit down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to suppress a grin of triumph. Although the Science Officer's features remained unchanged in their usual impassive lines, the tips of his ears had turned a lush shade of green. The savor of that small victory remained with him long after the taste of the pudding had dissolved from his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**Hooray for me finally getting chapter four up and running! It took longer than I thought it would, although I suppose making impulsive decisions to visit one's sister for a few days can do that to a writer. I honestly tried to get some writing done when I was there, but it's amazing how spending all your time with four children and two dogs can sort of keep the slash virus at bay. So that's my sad story for the week...let's get on with the strange story!**

**I own Kirk and Spock action figures, but the characters themselves belong to Paramount.**

**Warnings in this chapter are for language and pervy!Jim. Again. Yeah, my version of Jim is a bit of a pervert. Okay, he's a BIG pervert. And it'll probably get worse. Just so you know :)**

Idly munching on an apple from the fruit basket, Jim leaned against one of the posts on the canopy bed in their suite, his attention divided between the _Romance Itinerary_ in his other hand and Spock, who had fastidiously set about the task of removing every single rose petal from the mattress. It had taken every ounce of self-control in his possession to refrain from laughing out loud during the Vulcan's discourse on why using rose petals to adorn a bed was a senseless and wasteful practice. Finally he raised his eyes from the brochure and made a face of mock incredulity at his friend.

"Spock, did it ever occur to you that maybe people like it because it's _romantic_?"

"Romance," Spock muttered, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "Perhaps the most irrational of all human pursuits."

Jim cocked his head at him.

"Enlighten me, friend—what do _you_ know about romance? "

Spock swept the last of the rose petals into the palm of his hand, and straightened into his most Vulcan stance. Jim felt the corners of his lips twitch in amusement.

_This oughta be good._

"I know everything I _need_ to know about romance—namely that it is impractical, contrived, and more often than not, it proves to be detrimental to those who pursue it."

"Romance, love...bah, humbug!" Jim grinned cheekily.

Spock blinked.

"Humbug, Captain?"

"Never mind." Jim extracted the last bite for his apple and fired the core toward the trash receptacle across the room, missing it completely. Spock graced him with a less-than-impressed look but said nothing as he crossed the room to dispose of the rose petals. They fell from Spock's hands into the trash receptacle in a shower of pink and red. Something about the sight filled Jim with an inexplicable sadness. He slumped onto the bed and feigned a renewed interest in the _Romance Itinerary. _Knowing how perceptive his friend was to his moods, he could feel Spock's eyes on him, waiting. Eventually he glanced up.

"It really is a pity."

"A pity?" Spock clasped his hands behind his back and regarded him with a mingled expression of curiosity and amusement.

"Captain, your compassion—however well-intentioned—is hardly necessary. I am Vulcan; I cannot miss what I do not desire."

Jim shook his head.

"Not for you, Mr. Spock; you are what you are." He smiled morosely.

"I just feel sorry for the poor soul who falls in love with you."

"Although I am aware that you are employing a human expression, I must question its logic. The phrase 'falling in love' implies that love is something that happens by accident or against one's own volition, as opposed to being a conscious act of the will."

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"Sometimes you can't help what you feel." He threw his friend a cautious look. "Or _who_ you feel for." he added.

"That is a very...human sentiment, Jim." Spock's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, considering his usage of the H-word.

"However, my upbringing as a Vulcan has repeatedly demonstrated that where there is emotion, there is also choice. Although the intensity of one's emotional attachments may lead him to believe he is powerless over his feelings, they _can_ be brought under control—it is merely a matter of exercising rational thought and self-discipline."

"Speaking from personal experience, Mr. Spock?"

Jim watched the inevitable eyebrow tilt and felt a twinge of bitter mirth.

_I'd better milk that brow for all it's worth, seeing as it's the only Vulcan body part that will ever rise for me._

Not that this was news to him. Four years of close friendship had pretty much cemented the reality that although he was firmly cocooned in the inner sanctum of Spock's soul, nothing short of a greenhouse filled with Omicron spores would ever grant him access to the Vulcan's body. It was a familiar and strangely comforting ache—like a hangnail that one had to occasionally jab at out of some perverse need to reinforce the pain. Considering the depth of trust and loyalty Spock had shown him—unprecedented for his race—it would be immensely selfish to want anything more.

As if in response to his train of thought, Spock reached down to scoop up the discarded apple core, filling his vision with a side view of the most perfect rump in Federation history.

_I've really got to be the most selfish bastard in the world,_ Jim thought ruefully.

His "hangnail" throbbed in agreement.

After a brief perusal of the leisure options outlined in the _Romance Itinerary, _Jim swiftly came to the conclusion that a visit to one of the resort's beaches would easily be the most Spock-friendly activity they could partake in. Not that the couple's spa or tango lesson options weren't tempting, but the thought of Spock's ascetic body (and accompanying frown) superimposed on a massage table or a dance floor was more than enough to quell any hope for mutual enjoyment. If nothing else, at least they could sit on a blanket and converse.

Just as anticipated, Spock easily capitulated to his recommendation. Feeling a little guilty over the fact that his First Officer had pretty much let him have his way in everything since their arrival at _Cupid's Cove,_ Jim passed the _Romance Itinerary _over to him and put him in charge of selecting the beach they would visit. It wasn't until Spock responded with a dry "Yes sir," that he realized that he was still bossing the man around.

After reassuring him that his position as commanding officer and his experience in taking shore leave made it logical for him to take charge, Spock left the room to make the necessary transportation arrangements with Droovin and give him time to change into more appropriate beachwear. The Science Officer himself was positively scandalous in his black, (bicep-revealing) t-shirt and regulation Starfleet trousers, and Jim laughed aloud as he imagined the eyebrow acrobatics the Vulcan High Command would surely perform if they ever learned of Spock's deviancy.

When he was comfortably attired in a white tank top and a red pair of swim trunks, Jim navigated his way through the hotel corridors until he came to the lobby, where Spock and Droovin where already waiting for him. The man-cherub waved vigorously at his arrival, as if he had not seen him in years, as opposed to a couple of hours. He trotted towards him, his diaper _crinkling _subtly with each stride.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkspock! I trust your stay with us has been _pleasurable_?" He punctuated the last word with a quick wink

Jim nodded vaguely, willing the hairs on the back of his neck to lie flat again.

"Yes yes, it's great. Wonderful."

Standing behind the Jarillian, Spock was regarding him with his arms crossed over his chest, his upper lip twitching faintly. Sparks of amusement lit the rich brown eyes. Ignoring him, Jim fixed his attention on one of the wings strapped to Droovin's back. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Has my First Officer informed you of our intentions for the afternoon, Mr. Droovin?"

A salacious grin oozed across Droovin's face.

"He most certainly _has—_the naughty Vulcan."

This time it was Spock's turn to be on the receiving end of one of the Jarillian's winks. Jim threw his friend an unsympathetic smirk, shaking with silent laughter as the Vulcan bristled visibly.

They followed Droovin out of the hotel and down to a nearby harbor, where a small watercraft was waiting for them at the end of one of the piers.

"Mr. Spockkirk has selected our most remote beach," Droovin explained, pointing to a distant dot on the ocean's horizon. His cerulean eyes twinkled at Jim

"I'm certain you will find it very much to your liking."

After they had comfortably boarded the boat, Droovin inserted a key into the ignition on the steering wheel and glanced over his shoulder at the two men.

"The ride can be a bit unsettling if you haven't spent a lot of time around water," he said, looking significantly at the desert-bred Spock, "You might find it comforting to hold onto your partner for support."

Jim rolled his eyes and Spock favored the man with the same bovine expression he reserved for Dr. McCoy's most tasteless remarks.

"Thank you sir, but I shall be quite alright." he said in his most dismissive tone.

The boat roared off and Jim's irritation was instantly lost in a maelstrom of sensation. There was nothing he could do to prevent a wide smile from sprawling across his face as the combination of speed and sea spray assailed him. In the seat beside him, Spock looked as impassive as ever, but the muscles in the leg pressed against his betrayed his tension, clenching and unclenching each time the boat jostled and bounced.. Once, when the boat skipped across a particularly choppy series of wavelets and launched itself into the air for a fraction of a second, the Vulcan lurched forward and clutched Jim's upper thigh to steady himself. He threw his captain an apologetic look and Jim flashed him a guileless smile.

_Keep that up, my friend, and I just might be able to provide you with a better handgrip. _

All too quickly they approached an oblong-shaped island at the end of an archipelago that appeared to be nothing more than a narrow ring of beach engulfing a small jungle. Several watercrafts dotted the shoreline, despite the emptiness of the beach. Droovin guided the boat to shore and let them off.

"This area of the island is just the loading zone for our guests." he told them. He gestured toward the jungle. "If you go inland, you will find a path marked with red flowers that will lead you to your beach."

He gave the men a mock salute which morphed into a waggle-fingered wave.

"Have fun, gentlemen," he cooed. Once again Jim was amazed at the Jarillian's ability to make even the most common sentences sound charged with innuendo. Nodding curtly at him, they set off towards their destination.

They hiked through the lush foliage of the jungle, following the trail of hibiscus flowers that punctuated the ground. . Breathing in the heady tang of the air, Jim glanced at his companion and felt a mild surge of awe. Set against the tropical backdrop of their surroundings, Spock's exotic features seemed to lend themselves easily to the primitive atmosphere. He could just picture the Vulcan stalking silently through the jungle canopy, dressed in a loincloth and carrying a large spear.

"Now _this _is a romantic place!" he declared suddenly.

"Indeed?" Spock eyed him curiously. "May I ask why you have reached that conclusion?"

"Look around you! Everything about this place is gorgeous."

_Everything,_ he thought with a wistful glance at Spock.

"C'mon, Spock—not even you could be in a place like this without being affected."

Spock paused thoughtfully.

"You are correct, Jim. I have found that the humidity in the air has directly affected my respiration, increasing the strain on my lungs by four point seven percent."

"So in other words, being here with me simply takes your breath away?"

"Essentially, yes."

Jim chuckled.

_Perhaps you aren't so hopeless after all, Mr. Spock._

He opened his mouth to tell him as much, but the words froze on his lips when Spock suddenly shouted, "Jim!" and shoved him aside, causing him to land unceremoniously on his bottom. He heard a dull _thunk! _as small object collided with Spock's body and clattered to the ground. Jim scrambled to his feet and glanced at his friend in alarm, his protective instincts momentarily flaring to life. They instantly fizzled away when he saw the bright yellow disc lying at Spock's feet. Brushing the dirt off his backside, he glared reproachfully at his friend.

"It's just a frisbee, Spock—how 'bout next time you skip the theatrics and just _catch_ the damn thing?"

Spock rounded on him, his face a mask of wounded Vulcan dignity.

"Captain, I had no way of ascertaining..."

"Oh my gosh, I am SO sorry!"

Turning to the sound of the new voice, the two men were greeted with the sight of a slender young woman running towards them.

A very _naked_ young woman.

In a flurry of bouncing body parts, she trotted over to where they were standing and grinned sheepishly.

"I've seriously got the worst throw in the world—sorry if I hit you."

While Jim could do little more than open and close his mouth like an overgrown guppy, Spock inclined his head politely, retrieved the renegade frisbee and handed it to the woman as casually as if she had been wearing a winter parka.. The woman thanked him and sprinted away, yelling "I've got it!" to some unknown presence at the end of the path.

As if they had choreographed and rehearsed the move plenty of times before, their necks craned towards each other and Jim saw the same dubious expression reflected in the Vulcan's eyes. Wordlessly they followed the rest of the trail until they arrived at the beach. It took less than five seconds for the larvae of suspicion that had been wiggling in Jim's mind to metamorph into full confirmation. Scattered along the shore like seeds of exhibitionism was a hodgepodge of bodies of varying size and color—the only constant among them being their lack of apparel. Again, Jim felt his mouth open and snap shut several times. The woman with the frisbee had only been a single droplet of of skin in a sea of naked. He pivoted on his heels to confront his First Officer.

"Kindly explain to me, Mr. Spock—what the hell are we doing at a nude beach?"

**...and now for Spockaholic's slash forecast for the next chapter: sunny with a chance of naked! You have been warned. See you soon and don't forget to wear your sunscreen!**

**...Jim and Spock reccommend the "Banana Boat" brand. (mwahahaaaa!) (^_^)\\/**


	5. Chapter 5

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**There comes a point in the life of every writer when they come across something they have written a long time ago and can only respond to it with a massive facepalm. I have a sneaking suspicion that this chapter just might be one of the most facepalm-worthy things I'll ever have written. Heck, I'm facepalming even NOW... (O_O) **

**So anyways, here's Chapter Five; or – as Loves Jack so aptly called it, "The Naked Times" lol**

**Warnings for this chapter are for crackfic-esque writing and liberal usage of the word "naked." **

**...I am rapidly coming the conclusion that even though I do not own Jim and Spock, I do not DESERVE to own them after all this OOC weirdness...oh well, it's all about having fun in the end :)**

"Nude beach, Captain?"

"Yes, Spock—nude beach." Jim spoke through clenched teeth. "That's generally what they call a place where naked people play in the water and build sand castles."

Briefly the Vulcan's eyes surveyed the area around them, clinically noting the unusually high concentration of visible body appendages.

"...fascinating." he muttered.

Unable to help himself, Jim arched wrinkled his brow at his friend.

"This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through to get me to take my clothes off..."

Spock regarded him imperiously.

"I can assure you, that was _not_ a factor in choosing this particular beach."

"Oh, so _you _wanted to take your clothes off—even better!" Jim made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "By all means, Mr. Spock, don't let me stop you."

"Captain." The Vulcan spoke as if he were addressing an imbecile. "I had no prior knowledge of the...nature this location. I selected it because it was designated as a 'free beach' and as I am presently unfamiliar with Jarillian currency and did not wish for us to have to pay an admission fee..."

Jim held up a hand to stem the tide of Spock-talk.

"Spock! What part of 'all-inclusive vacation' don't you understand? If it's called a 'free' beach, that's basically a nice way of saying that you're free to uh, let it all hang out." He shook his head in exasperation.

"My God, Spock! I can't take you anywhere!"

"I am hardly a deity, Captain." Spock replied primly.

Jim glared at him.

"Now you're just being an asshole."

"That is not physiologically possible; your absence of logic is baffling."

As much as he loved the guy, there were indeed moments when Jim was more favorably inclined towards McCoy's opinion of him.

"Admit it, Spock—you're just embarrassed that you screwed up."

Spock's dispassionate retort was halted by the approach of a frowning man in a diaper. Dressed identically to Droovin, but lacking the starburst-shaped pupils of a Jarillian and standing at least two heads taller, he glowered down at the two Starfleet officers.

"Is there a problem gentlemen?"

"Problem?" Jim smiled up at him weakly. "No sir, we're doing fine—great, actually."

Normally James Kirk grovelled to no one, but the same intuition that served him so well on the command chair told him that if a man could wear a diaper and look like less of a cherub than an Archangel of Vengeance, it was probably wise not to piss him off unless absolutely necessary.

"Are you sure? Because you seem a little worked up."

Jim took a step closer to Spock and offered the Archangel his most disarming grin.

"Do I? I'm sorry—it's just that my, uh _partner_ here," He snaked an arm around Spock's shoulder. "kept it a surprise that we were coming to this particular beach. He likes to keep me on my toes; don't you, love?"

"Captain..."

Jim gave the Vulcan a simpering smile as he dug his fingers into the flesh of his arm.

"Remember what we talked about—I'm only 'Captain' in the bedroom.." He smiled apologetically at the Romance Concierge.

"He's so incorrigible sometimes..."

The Romance Concierge cleared his throat awkwardly and seemed to deflate slightly in his majesty.

"Uh, right then. Enjoy your time here and please keep it tasteful." He threw Jim a dubious glance.

"_Please._"

Spock waited until the man was out of earshot before rounding on Jim.

"Although I am well aware of your...enthusiasm for theatrics, that was hardly necessary, Jim."

Chuckling softly, Jim patted released his grip on Spock's shoulder, patting it a couple of times in apology.

"Just playing the part, my friend—just playing the part."

He ran both hands through his hair and smiled, his good humor restored.

"So? Shall we set up camp?"

The Vulcan's lips parted briefly in question and Jim shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Pick your poison, Spock; it's either this or Droovin."

The words were hardly out of Jim's mouth when Spock responded in the affirmative.

They strolled down the wide ribbon of sand in search of an empty beach station. Aided by the calming presence of the Vulcan at his side and the utter lack of sexual intent in the activities of the beach-goers around them, Jim could feel the shock of exposure gradually recede from his system. Indeed this wasn't the first time he and Spock had run the gauntlet of skin together, as not every civilization in the galaxy shared their esteem for clothing.

Eventually they came to a vacant beach station, complete with a shade-providing artificial palm tree, fresh towels, sand toys, suntan lotion, and even a large, heart-shaped flotation device—which, Jim assumed, judging from the faint disdain on Spock's face as he eyed it—would remain unused. Settling comfortably on the beach blanket, Jim tried not to register any reaction when Spock joined him, sitting a meagre ten centimeters away from him, despite the ample surface area available. Vaguely he wondered if Spock's nearness was either a result of habit or an unconscious sense of solidarity at being one of the only other non-naked guests at the beach.

After several awkward moments of trying to figure out where he should and shouldn't look, he glanced over at his companion, quietly marveling at the serenity he found on the angular features.

"Does any of this bother you at all?"

"Negative. Nudity is of no consequence to me."

"I have to admit: I find that a little surprising, coming from a Vulcan."

Spock cocked his head to one side as he considered Jim's words.

"Understandable. However, it is not a question of personal preference as much as it is a question of logic—and there is indeed a primitive form of logic at work here."

Jim propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands.

"Enlighten me."

"You are familiar with the biblical account of the first humans, correct?"

"Adam and Eve. The Garden of Eden. What about it?"

"_And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed._" Spock quoted.

"Throughout much of your planet's histoy, the Garden of Eden has been symbolic of an ideal that humans strive to attain. "

Jim felt the corners of his lips turning upward.

"Are you saying that humans should be naked all the time? Maybe Droovin was right—you _are_ a naughty Vulcan."

"Considering the many functional and ceremonial uses for clothing, that would hardly be feasible." Spock replied evenly. "What I am saying is that if humans are indeed interested in recreating the circumstances of their former perfection—in accordance with biblical mythology—then perhaps a logical starting point would be relinquishing the idea that the human body in its natural state is inherently offensive."

A warm surge of affection for the Vulcan swept over him. Only Spock—the paragon of modesty himself—could look him in the eye and speak as though lying bare-ass naked in the middle of a couples beach would be the most rational thing in the world.

Then again, even without the impeccable logic of his First Officer, the sight of the beachgoers themselves was persuasive enough. The entire beach seemed to be charged with a giddy energy that pulsed from the resort guests, as if everyone were on the inside of a private joke. Rather than heightening the sexuality of the individuals, the collective nudity almost seemed to have a reverse-aging effect. Indeed, the sight of naked adults frolicking in the ocean or batting beach balls at each other only called to mind a time when a three-year old James Kirk strutted confidently in nothing but his own skin—his babyish flesh untouched by the weight of command braids. A blunt throb of envy quickened inside him. How long had it been since he had been so unburdened? When could he _ever_ be so unburdened, if not now?

_Oh, what the hell...I'm on vacation!_

"Once again, Mr. Spock, I am at the mercy of your flawless logic," he declared, peeling off his undershirt. He deposited it in a heap beside his leg, grinning at the sphinxlike expression on the Vulcan's face. Hesitantly he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his swim trunks, and glanced quickly at Spock, as if asking for permission. The brandy colored eyes that met his were equally saturated with amusement and resignation, as if the sight of his commanding officer stripping to the basic equipment had always been the inevitable outcome of their excursion. Before he could talk himself out of it, he rocked his hips backward and tugged his swim trunks from underneath, feeling a thrill of rebellious exhiliration when the fabric slid past his groin.

_Freedom!_

After adding the shorts to the pile of discarded clothing, he turned his friend, unable to keep a ridiculous grin from spreading across his face.

"Welcome to Paradise, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan's head could have been transplanted from a marble bust for all the expression it contained.

Jim didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the lack of response.

_What did you expect—one look at your naked body and he would mount you like a stallion?_

He supposed it was just part of the enigma that was First Officer Spock.

_Show the man a banana and he blushes; dangle the fruit of carnal knowledge in front of him and he doesn't even blink._

"So where does that leave _you_, my logical friend?" He tilted his head inquisitively at the Science Officer.

The faintest readings of a flinch registered on the Vulcan's body.

"_Me_, Captain?"

Jim smiled wolfishly.

"Although you do paint a beautiful and compelling picture of humankind reconnecting with its mythological origins, I can't help but notice a _startling_ lack of nudity on your part. A lesser man might be tempted to say that it weakens your thesis. "

Folding his arms neatly across his chest, Spock favored him with the Vulcan equivalent of a smirk.

"Perhaps that would be correct if I were human, Jim. However as a Vulcan, I am merely speaking from an outsider's point-of view, and am not subject to the ideals of a different civilization."

Jim kindly allowed the Vulcan a brief five seconds to savor his perceived victory before turning a pitying gaze on him.

"If only that were true, my dear friend Spock," he sighed, "Unfortunately, I seem to recall an introduction to decidedly _human_ woman to whom you referred as your mother." He tipped an eyebrow in a teasing parody of his friend's signature expression. "I would say that gives you ample reason to get naked...all in the spirit of self-actualization, of course."

Jim watched with vicious satisfaction as the smugness on Spock's face curdled before his eyes.

_Checkmate._

Spock eyed him warily. Jim arched his eyebrows and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"Well?"

With a baleful look, the Vulcan unfolded his arms and extricated the form-fitting t-shirt from his torso. Jim watched in rapt attention as the delicious slice of hair-speckled skin parted from the confines of his clothing. The grandeur of the moment wasn't lost on him—the sight of Spock removing his shirt was as glorious and rare as a sun re-emerging from an eclipse. Breathlessly he waited as the Vulcan neatly folded the garment and set it aside, his heart pounding a drum-roll for the Grand Finale. An agonizing handful of seconds inched by. Then another. And another. Finally, he caught the Science Officer's gaze and was startled to see a thin glint of amusement dancing on the surface of the alien eyes.

"I am _half_ human," Spock explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Half naked should suffice."

Jim shook his head and grinned wryly.

_Spocktease._

**...More nakedness to come in the next chapter...and no, I don't mean it like*THAT* (^_^)\\/**


	6. Chapter 6

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**Ohhh deeearr...I thought the LAST chapter was a gong show...**

***facepalms self hard enough to leave a permanent dent in forehead***

**Honestly, I have NO excuse for this chapter. None at all. But still, it was fun. Forgive me, Mr. Roddenberry, for besmirching your wonderful characters!**

**Special thanks to Laura Denvir and Loves Jack, whose comments provided me with tons and tons of inspiration for this chappie :)**

**MAJOR perv warnings for this chapter! Lots of...uh, biology. **

When Spock idly reached for the bottle of suntan lotion to examine the information label, Jim seized the window of distraction to roll onto his stomach in an attempt to conceal the witness that had risen to testify on behalf of his appreciation for the Vulcan's bare torso. He supposed it was just as well that the Science Officer had conceded only to partial nudity—anything more and Jim was pretty sure he would be able to drill through the sand with both hands tied behind his back. Not that he was particularly thrilled about the fact that his ass crack was was prominently smiling up at his grim-faced companion, but he supposed some dignity had to be sacrificed when he was caught quite literally between a Spock and a _(very) _hard place.

Jim stretched out languorously on the blanket, reveling in the feel of the woven fabric beneath him and the embrace of the sun on his back. His lips curved in amusement as he watched the activities of the other vacationers on the shoreline. One of the ubiquitous Cupid figures was using his bow to shoot plastic arrows into the ocean, whereupon a herd of enthusiastic nudists would scramble into the water in a mad race to retrieve it. The winner would then return the arrow to the Romance Concierge in exchange for what looked like pieces of candy. He laughed in wholehearted agreement when Spock looked upon the proceedings and predictably declared them to be "highly illogical." Still, he had to admit that it did him a world of good to see members of his own species having fun—an increasingly neglected luxury on his part**.**

"Ho there, James Kirk!"

Jim lifted his eyes at the approach of a very large, naked, bearded man whom he recognized as Norman Stone—the man from the dessert buffet. He was carrying a slender, white-haired woman in a floral print sundress, her body cradled gently against his chest. He sat up and offered the man a two-fingered salute in greeting.

"Hello again, Mr. Stone."

Norman snorted derisively at the honorific.

"Just call me Norman, kid...the whole 'mister' thing seems a bit superfluous now that you've seen my dick."

"Fair enough," Jim couldn't help but grin at the older man's crassness. Next to him, even Bones would come off as a blushing schoolgirl.

"So you decided to take the naked beach route...pretty brave for a couple of newcomers."

"It was all _his_ idea," Jim stated, pointing at his Science Officer. "This is Spock. My partner."

"Norman Stone."

The two exchanged polite nods. Norman's gaze rested fondly on the woman in his arms.

"And this here is my Joanie—the belle of the ball." The gruffness in his voice had dissolved, replaced with a tenderness that seemed completely incongruous with his bushman appearance.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Stone."

The woman didn't acknowledge him. Lying like a rag doll in Norman's arms, she could easily have been mistaken as unconscious, were it not for her eyes. Blinking erratically, her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her starburst-shaped pupils contracted.

"She's not much of a talker these days," Norman informed him, "but if she was, she would tell you to just call her Joanie; she's never been big on titles."

"Joanie it is, then...a pleasure to meet you, Joanie." Jim smiled at the Jarillian woman.

Beside him, Spock had finished examining the bottle of suntan lotion and he set it down on the blanket. Norman's eyes followed the action.

"You'd better be sure to grease yourself up good with that stuff, James. _Full coverage, _if you catch my meaning...the sun can be a real bitch to a naked guy."

He jerked his head in Spock's direction, then added,

"I don't think Spock here would appreciate it if you served him up some roasted sausage later on...right Spock?"

While Jim's face reddened as if he had just downed a barrel of Romulan Ale, the stoic planes of Spock's features remained unchanged.

"I fail to see the relevance of that statement, but you are quite correct, sir." Spock replied serenely, "It is not the practice of Vulcans to consume the flesh of animals."

At this, Norman threw his head back and positively bawled with laughter, his mouth opened so wide it gave him the appearance of a puppet. His body convulsed so violently that Jim almost feared for the safety of the woman he carried.

"Did you hear that, Joanie?" he cried, "This guy is too much!"

Despite his mortification, Jim had to join in the mirth, if only because of the ripple effect that the unrestrained laughter produced. His eyebrow uplifted, Spock's faintly annoyed gaze ping-ponged between the two men, and he waited patiently for the laughter to subside.

"You fellas are somethin' else," Norman declared when he had finally regained his composure, "But I gotta get my Joanie settled in before she gets tired of being jounced around so much. If you ever get bored of just sitting on your blanket and watching the waves, feel free to come on over and visit us at our little spot. We won't be hard to find—just look for the fat, naked guy with the beard."

Briefly his arms sagged under the weight of his passenger, but he hefted her up to her former elevation. A slight grimace flashed on his face, but he quickly discarded it. Jim wondered how long he had been carrying his partner. His ever-observant eyes having taken in the action, Spock rose to his feet and strode purposefully towards the couple.

"Permit me to assist you, sir." He extended his arms in Joanie's direction.

Jim saw the older man's mouth open to protest, so he jumped in before he could utter a syllable.

"Always trying to show off for me, aren't you, Spock?" He grinned in mock exasperation.

"He does this everywhere we go—always grandstanding with his 'superior Vulcan strength.' Isn't that right, _dear_?"

Catching the significant look Jim threw at him, Spock nodded his head awkwardly.

"Vulcans are indeed three times as strong as humans...dear." he answered in the monotone voice he employed when attempting a ruse.

Chuckling at the byplay, Norman gave his consent and transferred Joanie over to Spock's receiving arms. Jim gazed fondly at the Vulcan's retreating back as the trio started off. Despite the presence of the aging nudist at his side, he had to admit that Spock cut quite the dashing figure: tall and shirtless and effortlessly carrying an attractive woman in his arms, her skirt fluttering with each stride. Vaguely he wondered if he ever looked half as good when he performed the same feat.

Returning to his former horizontal position, Jim propped his head on his interlocking forearms and followed the vivid zigzagging blanket pattern with his eyes. The sounds of laughter mingled with the whisper of the tide drifted into his ears and he smiled in contentment, thinking that "free beach" was about as apt a description of this place as there could be. Free from his clothes, free from the burden of command, free from being seen as anything else but the bondmate of the most alluring and intriguing being he had ever encountered. Surrounded by naked people, men in diapers...and Spock. Perhaps it was a testament to his humanity that he could derive such a simple joy from such a ridiculous situation. Although Spock would undoubtedly classify this as one of humanity's greatest idiosyncrasies, Jim couldn't help but wonder if it was also one of their greatest gifts.

Moments later, sand-muffled sound of footsteps behind him and the slight shadow cast over the beach blanket coaxed him away from his musings. A flash of wicked inspiration struck him. Not bothering to lift his head, he grabbed the bottle of suntan lotion and waved it in the air. A mischievous smile played on his lips.

"I don't suppose you're up for helping me get some of this stuff on my back, are you? I'd do it myself, but I'm a bit limited by my stubby, _human_ arms..."

He smirked in anticipation of the excuse Spock would rattle off to decline, knowing his friend's disdain for prolonged physical contact. Instead, he was surprised when an unhesitating hand took the bottle from him. Resisting the impulse to raise his head and gape in surprise, he closed his eyes instead as his companion knelt beside him, deposited some lotion into his hands, and began slathering it onto his back.

Briskly the hands circled over the contours of his back, slicking the suncscreen into his bare flesh, stopping only to replenish its supply. When they dipped lower and began kneading the twin hemispheres of his buttocks, he shoved his tongue to one side of his mouth and gently bit on it to prevent himself from making any appreciative commentary. Surreptitiously he shifted his body to accommodate the reoccurring pressure in his loins. All too briefly, the hands concluded their tour of his rump and continued down his legs, efficiently coating the backs of his calves and ankles. When the ministrations had ceased, he felt a tinge of regret that he didn't have a larger build—more surface area would mean more contact with the roving hands.

"Well, that was certainly, uh, _efficient_," he commented, injecting his voice with a casualness he did not feel, "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome, Mr. Kirkspock."

Jim Kirk was not religious man by nature, but he was suddenly gripped with an overwhelming urge to pray to every possible deity in the universe that Spock had suddenly developed a sense of humor and a talent for mimicry and was testing it out on his commanding officer.

His silent petition was answered with a mocking _crinkle._

"What the HELL?"

In a flurry of motion, he leaped to his feet, instinctively assuming a battle-ready stance. Kneeling serenely on the beach blanket, bottle still in hand, Droovin smiled benignly at him.

"Are we enjoying ourselves today, sir?"

Belatedly Jim remembered the altered state of his frontal physiology. With an inward curse, he sank to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest to hide the damning evidence from the grinning Jarillian. His efforts were rewarded with a brisk wink.

His temper completely unhinged, Jim snatched up a handful of powdery sand and flung it at the man-cherub, who raised his arms to shield his face from the onslaught.

"What the hell is WRONG with you?" he roared.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" Spock's mild voice materialized from behind him.

"S-Spock!" Jim spluttered, jabbing a finger in the Romance Concierge's direction, "This...this _pervert_ here was touching me! _Groping _me! Right on the ass!"

Droovin's lips formed a rosy _O_ of surprise at the accusation. Dropping the bottle, he rose to his feet and held up his hands placatingly at the Vulcan.

"Mr. Spockkirk, I can assure you..."

Evidently Spock had already heard enough. He stepped onto the blanket, inserting himself between Jim and the Jarillian.

"Sir, you _will_ abstain from touching the captain again." His words were colored with a dark undercurrent of menace.

"I was only complying with Mr. Kirkspock's request sir." Droovin replied easily.

Spock turned to Jim, his face a very un-Vulcanlike mask of puzzlement.

"...Captain?" he began hesitantly.

Jim groaned in frustration.

"For God's sakes, Spock—I thought he was _you_!"

The eyebrow launched itself up the Vulcan's forehead so quickly Jim was almost surprised that it didn't fly off his head altogether.

"I had my head down," he added lamely, his voice trailing off.

"You believed me to be..._groping _you, Captain?" Spock's voice was laced with incredulity.

If there was ever a time in Jim's Starfleet career when he would have gladly welcomed a sudden Klingon ambush, it was now.

Before he could even formulate an embryo of an idea of how to explain himself, Droovin stepped toward the Vulcan with an appeasing smile on his face.

"Mr. Kirkspock was in need of some assistance in applying his sunscreen, sir," he explained smoothly, "It can be a difficult task to accomplish on one's own when you have to rely on 'stubby, _human _arms." His lips stretched in a knowing smirk.

Spock cast a quick glance at Jim for confirmation and he gave him a curt nod.

Keeping a wary eye on the Romance Concierge, Spock seated himself directly beside Jim, his bare shoulder pressing lightly against his. Jim resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow of his own at the contact. If he didn't know any better he would've been almost convinced that the Vulcan was "staking a claim."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Droovin, the intimate nature in which you applied yourself to the task was clearly not appreciated upon discovery. May I inquire as to why you did not clarify your presence earlier?"

Despite the flames of humiliation that continued to sear him, Jim couldn't help but feel his lips quirk a little at the suspicion in his friend's voice. He wasn't sure whether he should feel gratified that Spock was demonstrating such protectiveness over him or chagrined that he was being treated like a damsel in distress.

_What are you going to do, Spock—duel him at sundown to defend my honor?_

A shame Bones wasn't here to witness this; he would've had one hell of a heyday with the Vulcan afterward.

Brushing a hand through his hair to clear off some of the sand Jim had thrown, Droovin hunkered down across from the two men.

"I had only assumed that your lifemate was aware that it was me," he said. Instinctively, Jim opened his mouth to protest the man-cherub's choice of words, but at the last second he decided to let it go.

"We Romance Concierges are occasionally called upon to help with the sunscreen, especially at our free beach. Some of our male patrons—especially the first-timers—are afraid of having an embarrassing physical reaction as a result of a partner's help..."

Jim ignored the meaningful look Droovin sent his way.

"...and many of them find it reassuring to be aided by someone they aren't attracted to. Please believe me, Mr. Spockkirk, if I had not thought this to be the case with your lifemate, I wouldn't have touched him."

Spock acknowledged his statement with an imperious incline of the head.

"Very well," he conceded, mollified. "Please be assured that you will not be required to perform similar services in the future."

The Jarillian's lips re-formed into their usual grin.

"Understood, sir—I shall leave Mr. Kirkspock's backside to your capable hands."

Wink.

Although Spock made no outward acknowledgment of the man-cherubs, words, Jim could feel the muscles in his shoulder and forearm clench.

Droovin turned his gaze on Jim, his eyes sending blue sparks of mischief his way.

"No _hard _feelings, Mr. Kirkspock?"

Wink.

_To hell with the Prime Directive—I'm going to kill him._

Jim bared his teeth in a feral parody of a smile.

"Not at all."

"You are most gracious."

Droovin rose to his feet and hitched up his diaper.

"Gentlemen, I shall leave you to your leisure. If you should require anything from me, or when you wish to return to the mainland, I will be lending my assistance at the beach volleyball station."

Jim watched Droovin's retreat with grim satisfaction the slightly spraddled gait he'd adopted—no doubt a result from sand chafing. His suspicions were confirmed a few seconds later when the Jarillian discreetly tugged at the bottom of his diaper, causing a small stream of sand to cascade from one of the leg openings. His shoulder bumped gently against Spock's as he shook with quiet laughter.

_Serves the bastard right._

Spock waited until the Romance Concierge was out of earshot before turning a bland face towards his friend.

"Permission to speak frankly, sir."

"Of course."

"Although I am aware that you are currently on vacation, I recommend that you maintain a certain amount of vigilance. Mr. Droovin's intentions were essentially harmless, but you would have been spared from unnecessary embarrassment had you been more watchful."

"Duly noted; thank you, Spock."

Inwardly Jim had to marvel at the Vulcan's reproach. Since when had Spock ever expressed any concern over Jim's emotions or disapproval of his actions unless they were directly related to his ability to function as ship's captain?

And since when did his prim and proper Science Officer find it acceptable to sit with his half-naked body wedged so closely beside his captain's fully naked body in a public setting? He fixed his friend with an inquisitive glance.

"May I ask you a personal question?"

Cautiously Spock nodded his assent.

"I'm not trying to accuse you of being emotional or anything, but you seemed a little more uh, _forceful_ than usual when you were dealing with Mr. Droovin. Any reason in particular for that?"

Were he anyone else but Spock, the pause he employed before launching into his answer would have been infinitesimal. For the Answer Man himself, the silence was mountainous. Jim felt the Vulcan's posture stiffen beside him.

"You are my captain. Regardless of whether we are on shore leave or not, it is my responsibility to investigate potential threats against you."

A small chuckle escaped Jim's throat.

"I would hardly consider getting an ass-rub from a guy in a diaper a threat, Mr. Spock. An annoyance, definitely, but not a threat."

Spock pressed his lips into a stern line.

"You were clearly in distress, Jim. "

Jim paused for a moment to consider his friend's words. He was Captain James Kirk—scourge of Klingons, Romulans and the no-win scenario. He could probably count on one hand the number of times his crew had seen him in a state of vulnerability that had not been induced by mind-manipulating substances or beings with god-like abilities. And yet, Spock had found him naked on a beach blanket, flinging sand and tattling petulantly on a manservant instead of dealing with him in his usual no-nonsense manner—all in the name of shielding his overenthusiastic (but sadly misguided) hard-on from public view. His face colored at the painfully fresh memory.

"Just an overreaction, Mr. Spock." he mumbled.

"Indeed."

"Still..." he met his First Officer's eyes tentatively. "I do appreciate your looking out for my well-being."

His words hung heavily in the air for a few seconds before Spock responded.

"Your gratitude is not necessary; I was merely performing my duty as your second-in-command."

"Your duty, huh?" Jim sent him a warm look. "Well I must say, you certainly are competent at it."

Spock stared at him thoughtfully.

"Perhaps that is to be expected when 'duty' and 'privilege' are considered one and the same."

His obsidian eyes settled on Jim's and the corresponding warmth in his voice washed over him, eroding away at his tension. Although he would not trade one green drop of Spock's blood for all the humanity in the world, he couldn't help but bemoan his rigid aversion towards public affection. He grasped at the beach blanket with both fists to prevent his arms from flinging themselves across the Vulcan's torso in a massive bear hug. Instead, he shifted his weight into his right side, increasing the force of his arm and shoulder against Spock's—the gesture imperceptible to any possible onlookers, but sufficient enough to convey his intention to the master of subtlety himself. He smiled privately a moment later when he felt the reciprocating pressure from Spock. For several minutes they sat together in silent commiseration. Finally, when the urge to nestle his head on the crook of Spock's shoulder threatened to overpower him, he pulled away.

"You know..."

Spock glanced up sharply, the dubious expression returning to his eyes at the familiar teasing undertone. Jim picked up the sunscreen bottle and deposited it unceremoniously onto Spock's lap.

"If you're interested in going the extra mile for your captain, I have yet to cover my front side, and I'm sure I could benefit from your..._thoroughness_..."

"Indeed?"

Ignoring the proffered bottle, Spock folded his arms tightly across his chest.

"I believe you may have misinterpreted my earlier statement, Captain. While I am required by duty to see to your well-being, I am also of the opinion that by doing too many things for you, I would be reducing your opportunities to experience some personal growth."

Jim fixed his friend with his most deadpan gaze.

"Oh believe me, Mr. Spock, you've given me plenty of opportunities to experience..._personal growth._" His mouth softened into a licentious smile.

After a few heartbeats of complete silence, Spock regarded his friend innocently.

"Thank you, Captain."

Carefully Jim studied his Science Officer. Although his face couldn't have been more austere and expressionless if he had been a Kolinahr master, there was no mistaking the decidedly green hue on the tapered ears. For the first time in his long and treasured friendship with Spock, he felt a faint but potent flush of hope spike through him as he considered Spock's words and wondered (not for the first time) if the Vulcan was even half as oblivious as he seemed.

**...by the way, if a certain scene in this chapter seemed a bit reminiscent of a certain scene in TOS, yeah, it was totally intentional. Just my paying homage to one of the slashiest moments in Trek history. It has nothing to do with not having enough original ideas of my own.**

**..Nothing at all.**

**...That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.**

***covers face and runs away***


	7. Chapter 7

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**...Whoa. That was a ridiculously long wait between chapters...sorry 'bout that. **

**Just to give everyone fair warning, we are about to venture into schmoop-infested waters because I am a complete and total sap with wish-fulfillment issues. Other warnings for this chapter are for the usual pervy goodness and general weirdness. Seriously. The last two chapters were my facepalm chapters...this is my WTF chapter (dun dun DUNNN!)**

**Please don't sue me, Paramount :S  
**

Although Jim would have been than happy to spend the entirety of the afternoon gazing at the ocean and basking in Spock's companionship, Spock's bladder and his stomach eventually developed other ideas, and they set off to appease their respective organs. Their wanderings eventually took them to the center of the beach where they were greeted with an odd assortment of shacks and brightly colored tents from various Terran eras. After visiting the restroom and snack stand they meandered over to the beach volleyball station to watch the impromptu match between the hotel staff and guests.

They immediately spotted Droovin in all his diapered glory, sweating profusely and chirping encouragement to teammates and opponents alike. Jim watched with reluctant admiration as the man-cherub leaped to intercept an overhead pass, spiking the ball into the sand with surprising force. He couldn't decide if the almost-majestic look was enhanced or destroyed by the slight flapping of fake wings.

Sucking contentedly at his vanilla milkshake, he divided his attention between watching ham-handed cavorting of the players and listening to Spock's running commentary on why the ineptness of the guest team was directly related to their lack of kinesthetic intelligence. He wasn't sure what amused him more: the sight of naked and diapered people bumbling around in the sand or the fact that his companion was viewing it as seriously as an Acadamy instructor overseeing a Kobiyashi Maru simulation.

After the staff team had scored their fifth consecutive point against the hapless nudists, Spock turned to Jim, his brows knitted thoughtfully.

"I believe, Jim, that the overall efficiency of the guest team would increase by seven point six percent if they were to adapt their footwork to accomodate the sand."

Jim smiled wryly.

"I believe, Spock, that the other ninety-three point four percent of efficiency would happen if the men would spend more time watching the ball and less time watching the women."

Not that he could really fault them for it; it was hard _not_ to appreciate a woman with a good...set.

"Indeed. I fail to see the logic in examining female anatomy during a sports match."

Jim sighed in mock exasperation.

"Spock my friend, I would be hard-pressed to believe that you _ever_ see the logic in examining female anatomy." And, just because he was feeling bold, he added, "Or male anatomy."

_Unfortunately._

"On the contrary, Jim."

Jim graced his friend with an indulgent smile.

_Here we go..._

"I find the study of anatomy—male and female—to be quite logical when it pertains to the field of medicine. I am also given to understand that familiarizing oneself with the structure of the body is useful for an artist in terms of producing more realistic-looking creations. Surely much of the success of the Terran sculptor Michelangelo is attributed to the time he spent dissecting and analyzing human corpses."

"So I guess I don't have to worry about you ogling me unless you're carrying a laser scalpel?"

"Vulcans do not 'ogle,'" Spock replied loftily.

Jim's mouth stretched into a grimace.

"So I've noticed."

A whistle blasted, signalling the end of the game. The staff team erupted into a frenzy of hooting and back slapping amid the good-natured grumblings of their opponents. With Droovin properly distracted by his fellow cherubs and not yet aware of their proximity, the two friends slipped away before they could be spotted.

After draining the last of his milkshake, Jim wandered over to a trash receptacle to dispose of the empty container. He was just beginning the mental process of trying to decide whether or not he wanted to risk offending Spock's vegetarian sensibilities by ordering a hot dog when a light tap on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. A young Jarillian woman in a paint-splattered Roman tunic and an elaborate network of copper braids on her head stood before them, smiling benignly. Instinctively Jim felt his lips slide into that slow, appreciative he reserved for first contact with attractive women.

"Forgive the intrusion, gentlemen, but could I interest you in participating in _J'esya yi sleya?_ "

"Excuse me?"

"_J'esya yi sleya—_'The Marking of the Joined.' The body is painted in celebration of the love-bond between lifemates. Traditionally it is used in Jarillian marriage rituals, but here we've modified it into a recreational option. Many of our guests find it an intimate and enjoyable experience. I'm quite certain you would as well."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see Spock drawing himself up to his full height—undoubtedly in passive, Vulcan resistance to the words "intimate" and "enjoyable." He smiled apologetically at the Jarillian.

"We appreciate the invitation, Miss..."

"Shindylle."

"...Miss Shindylle. It sounds beautiful, but I don't think it's quite for us."

"Are you certain? Although preferable, it's not necessary for both lifemates to undergo the Marking."

Turning to Spock, she dipped her head respectfully at him.

"I quite understand if you do not wish to participate because of cultural preferences..." To emphasize her point, she lifted her hand and sectioned her fingers into the wide V of the Vulcan _ta'al, _which Spock immediately reciprocated.

"But _you, _sir!" She whirled to face him. "Just think of the art your body could channel!" A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks.

"If you'll pardon my boldness in saying, it is truly a magnificent canvas."

She lowered her eyes demurely, but not before Jim caught the shrewd glint. He smiled tightly.

"You're very kind."

The woman shrugged modestly.

"Not at all. I'm merely an artist. When I see a source of inspiration I am naturally compelled to do what I can to bring it to fruition."

His grin widened. Nice to know he wasn't going _completely_ unappreciated on his trip, even if it _was _by a practiced huckster He made a smug face at Spock, who acknowledged it with the briefest roll of the eyes.

"You wouldn't be so cruel as to deprive an artist of the opportunity to create what could be her greatest accomplishment would you?" The starburst-shaped pupils in her eyes twinkled as her lips pulled into a pout.

_Damn. She's good._

He held up his hands in mock-surrender.

"Oh no, we couldn't have that."

Like he needed to be asked twice to have a beautiful woman running paintbrushes over his naked body. Especially with the inquisitive Mr. Spock watching. The former would be make for a highly amusing story to relay to Bones; the latter would make for a highly erotic memory to relay to his "right-hand man" on sleepless nights.

He grinned hopefully at Spock.

"What do you think, Spock? You don't mind if I contribute to the arts, do you?"

"Not at all, Captain. I, however, intend to return to the volleyball station."

Jim's eyebrows lifted. _Spock_—watching naked volleyball without the sanctioning presence of an illogical Human at his side? He had to give the Vulcan credit: when Mr. Spock went on vacation, he really _went on vacation! _Either that or he was simply trying to give him some privacy with Shindylle. Given his track record, it wouldn't be surprising for Spock to have come to that conclusion. He peered carefully at Spock's face, but nothing in the harsh features gave any indication of his thoughts. No surprise there.

"Oh. Alright, Spock. Sure. If that's what you want..."

"I'll come and fetch you when the painting is complete," Shindylle promised. Spock nodded polietly and turned on his heels.

"Have fun!" Jim called lamely after him.

"It is quite unlikely that I will 'have fun' but thank you for the sentiment, Captain." was Spock's sage reply.

He watched Spock's departure with slumped shoulders. Not that he really could have said anything about it, but over seventy-five percent of the appeal in being vandalized by a complete stranger was the thought of having those intelligent brown eyes riveted on his naked body.

So much for art appreciation.

Shindylle waited until Spock was out of earshot before turning to him with a broad grin on her face.

"He calls you 'Captain?' That's so _sweet!_"

With elaborate promises of turning his body into a "corporeal masterpiece," Shindylle led him into a canvas tent and had him stand in the centre of a large tarp. Contrary to his initial assumption (and to his slight disappointment), the _J'esya ysleya _involved no caresses of paintbrush tips on bare skin. Instead, standing a respectable distance away from him, the artist sprayed him with a small device resembling a phaser, outfitted with color-control knobs and an adjustable nozzle-head wheel on the muzzle. Although he couldn't begrudge Spock's decision to do something that didn't require being joined at his hip, he found himself coveting the Vulcan's presence, if only to enjoy his reaction to the painting process. Surely his natural curiosity would have been piqued by the seemingly endless combinations of paint colors and textures produced by the twisting of dials and the rotating of nozzle-heads.

"How long have you been with Mr. Spockkirk, Mr. Kirkspock?" Shindylle asked, coaxing him out of his thoughts. Jim had to chuckle at the jumble of name-related syllables.

"With all respect, Miss Shindylle, we normally go by Kirk and Spock." He smiled winningly and lowered his voice as if he were confiding a great secret.

"Actually, most of my friends call me Jim."

Shindylle stared at him thoughtfully.

"On Jaris it is customary to combine the names of lifemates. It's how we honor the joining of two lives. Failing to do so is considered a great sign of disrespect for the love-bond."

"We wouldn't take it that way. In fact, we would much rather be called by our individual names."

"A common reaction among outworlders," Shindylle remarked. "I can appreciate that our name joining might be a little disconcerting, but surely you can understand the responsibility I have to my belief system."

"Would it help if I told you that Spock and I aren't really what you would call 'lifemates?' We're actually in a very...open relationship."

The artist smiled indulgently at him as if he were a swaggering child who needed to be humored.

"But you love each other—that much is easy to see."

"You only saw us together for a couple of minutes. That's not a lot of time to determine whether two people love each other or not." He strove to keep his tone light, but his patience was rapidly dissolving.

"That's more than enough time if you know what to look for." Shindylle's lips tucked into a smirk. "You're not very subtle. _Please_ try not to squirm, Mr. Kirkspock; you're making it very difficult to apply the bodypaint."

The conversation did not get much better from there. In fact—in a cruel trick of the universe—he almost found himself wishing he could exchange the woman's company for Droovin's. Lewd comments and knowing winks might be as annoying as hell, but they were much easier to dismiss than deep, probing questions such as:

"When did you first start to perceive your love for Mr. Spockkirk?"

or:

"How has your life changed for the better since Joining with Mr. Spockkirk?"

or:

"What is Mr. Spockkirk's most endearing personality trait?"

His irritation mounted as Shyndille continued to ply him with Spock-related questions. He wasn't quite sure what annoyed him more: the questions themselves or his own shabby responses, which were generally vague and involved liberal amounts of praise for the Vulcan's logic, work ethic and pointed ears.

Finally, when his voice grew noticeably clipped, the artist looked up from her work and offered him a sympathetic smile

"You are not used to discussing Mr. Spockkirk in this manner."

It was a statement, not a question. Jim sighed.

"I'm a starship captain, Miss Shindylle. Whatever our personal relationship may be, it isn't something I've had the luxury to dwell on, let alone discuss with others—our professional relationship has to come first. I could tell you all about my physical attraction to him, but that would hardly be an appropriate conversation to have. Spock is my second-in command and my closest friend. Beyond that, I couldn't describe his value to me any better than I could describe my own instinct to breathe."

He looked away, hoping that the bodypaint was enough to cover the heated flush that had crept up his neck.

_Thank gods Spock isn't here to hear this._

No doubt the Vulcan would accuse him of speaking with "undue emotion."

Shindylle regarded him pensively for a moment before resuming her work. She did not ask any further questions. Apparently whatever she had managed to glean from his convoluted answer had been enough to satiate her curiosity and she worked in thoughtful silence for the rest of the session. Not once did the small smile depart from her lips.

Jim had not been sure what to expect when he'd agreed to let complete stranger lead him into a tent to turn him into a walking art exhibit. Whatever he'd imagined the finished product to look like, it certainly had not been the aurora of colors that flowed over his body—a chaos of iridescent jewel tones in swirling patterns. To his own untrained eye it looked more than a little strange. Shindylle, however, gazed at his body with unrestrained triumph blazing on her face and declared it one of the most "honest" works she had ever painted.

"Mr. Spockkirk is going to _love _it," she promised. Jim smiled archly.

"I'm sure he will."

_Not a chance in hell._

The rustle of the tent flap heralded the arrival of his friend. He saluted in greeting as the shirtless Spock emerged through the entrance and stepped inside. The Vulcan's eyes swept over his body. Jim suppressed a chuckle at the involuntary head tilt.

"What do you think, _Mr. Spockkirk?_"

He waited for the Eyebrow of Reproach to materialize. It didn't. In fact, the Vulcan gave no indication that he'd even heard him.

"Personally I think it's a little garish. Although admittedly I'm not much of an art connoisseur."

"Indeed," Spock muttered absently. His eyes lingered on the golden corona on his solar plexus. Jim resisted the urge to squirm under the Vulcan's perusal. He decided to switch tracks.

"How was the volleyball game?"

"A fascinating, if wearisome, study of human behavior in recreational activities—an experience I do not wish to repeat.

"Am to to believe, Mr. Spock, that _you_ played beach volleyball?" An incredulous laugh slipped out of Jim's mouth. Spock eyed him serenely.

"Although the surplus of players involved does not qualify the game to be called 'beach volleyball' in the traditional sense, you are essentially correct."

His posture straightened in response to the bafflement on Jim's face.

"I had the unfortunate experience of being accosted by Mr. Droovin during an intermission." he added by way of explanation, "He was most tenacious in persuading me to aid the guest team."

Jim's mouth dilated even further at the revelation.

"How the hell did he manage _that?"_

"He presented a thorough and compelling argument citing the benefits the guest team would receive in coming under the leadership of a Vulcan Starfleet officer in prime physical condition. His logic was surprisingly flawless." After a fractional pause he added, "We defeated the staff team by a seven-point lead."

A shiver of laughter rippled through Jim's body at the thought of the greatest Science Officer in Starfleet hitting a volleyball around with a bunch of nudists—persuaded to do so by a man in a diaper. A grudging respect for the Romance Concierge bloomed in him. Whether it was human arses or Vulcan egos, the man-cherub clearly had an affinity for stroking things.

Spock acknowledged his amusement with a brief softening of the eyes and returned his attention to the artwork on Jim's body. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he took in the marbled patterns. Jim smiled fondly when his friend tented his fingers and rested them against his lips—his signature gesture of contemplation. He could just picture the gears spinning in the Vulcan's mind as they attempted to apply some sort of logical filter through which he could interpret the visual data.

He waited in silence for Spock to finish his appraisal, forcing his face to remain in placid lines. Despite the fact that he had already spent a great portion of the day parading himself in front of his Science Officer, he couldn't remember feeling more vulnerable or exposed before him, even with the added coverage of the body paint. Perhaps it had something to do with the intense scrutiny on his face—so different from the clinical detachment of earlier. Although he was more than familiar with the analytical stare of his Science Officer, it was quite another thing to have it focused on his naked body. Not that his mind hadn't conjure up the scenario plenty of times, but—as his rapidly accelerating heartbeat could attest—the chasm between the imagination and the reality of the event couldn't have been any wider.

For one thing, he hadn't imagined how difficult even the simple act of breathing would become.

Finally, when he could bear the silence no longer, he released an awkward cough from the back of his throat.

"Spock."

"Yes, Captain?"

"You're ogling."

He waited for him to reiterate his assertion that "Vulcan's do not ogle." It didn't happen. Instead, a mottled green flush crept up the Vulcan's neck. He lowered his eyes.

"Forgive me," he said in a measured voice. "It was not my intention to cause you discomfort. I was merely trying to determine the aesthetic merit of the composition."

Despite his unravelling nerves, there was no way Jim Kirk could pass up an opportunity to tease his prim and proper Science Officer when it presented itself this easily. His lips curved into a sensuous smile.

"Like what you see, Mr. Spock?" he purred.

He watched in fascination as the Vulcan actually _flinched._

"Well..." The rich baritone trailed off. Spock's eyes darted back to his torso.

"The composition lacks a recognizable subject, and the colors seem to have been chosen at random. However, there _is_ a certain aesthetic appeal to the design. Perhaps it is a result of the interplay between the colors."

Moving with the uncanny grace of a marionette, Spock closed the distance between them, standing directly in front of Jim. His eyes did not stray from the painted contours of his body.

"Curious," he murmured. "Although I am at a loss to explain it fully, the juxtaposition of paint and skin suggests that the artwork was intended to be a tactile experience."

A tentative hand reached towards him.

"May I?"

_What the hell?_

Jim nodded his assent. Carefully Spock brushed two fingers over the curve of a shoulder then withdrew his hand quickly to inspect for paint residue. Satisfied that they came back dry, he returned them to his shoulder, touching his skin as if it could spontaneously combust at any given second.

Which wouldn't have surprised Jim in the least.

_Easy there, Kirk. Keep it natural. Just breathe._

He forced himself to breathe evenly when the slender fingers traveled down the length of his arm, tracing a golden thread through the labyrinth of colors and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He forced himself to breathe evenly when Spock's hand came to a halt on top of his own and he felt a barely perceptible shudder course through the Vulcan at the contact. He forced himself to breathe evenly when Spock reversed his course and trailed his fingertips back up his forearm, more slowly and with increased pressure.

But when Spock cupped the side of his face with his hand and dragged his thumb across his lower lip, nothing short of spontaneous combustion could have prevented the audible gasp that escaped him.

Spock's eyes flickered at the sound.

"Are you alright, Jim?"

"Just a little taken aback," he admitted, hating the way his voice faltered, "I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so, uh, _demonstrative_ in your art appraisal. "

Spock drew his hand away and examined it as if it were a separate entity from himself. Then, as if he had no say in the matter, he reached for him with both arms, gently gripping his shoulders.

"Fascinating," he muttered to himself. Despite his knowledge of Spock's pacifism, Jim couldn't help but wonder if his friend was, in fact, trying to kill him with his weird, asexual sexiness.

_Please Spock, for the love of God, do NOT use the word "fascinating" in the presence of a naked man with the hots for you! _

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Jim began, infusing his voice with a levity he did not feel, "but am I safe in assuming that you find Jarillian body art to be somewhat agreeable?"

"Affirmative," Hands and eyes migrated to his chest. "The artwork is unaccountably compelling—very aesthetically pleasing."

His eyes snapped to Jim's, flooded with an inexplicable awareness.

"Captain." His voice was hardly more than a whisper. "This is...beautiful. _You_ are beautiful."

Thermal hands began a slow descent down his torso, grazing over nipples and ribs before settling possessively on his hips. Jim's breath caught in his throat.

_Oh gods. I'm naked and I'm covered in paint and Spock likes it and he's TOUCHING me..._

The realization of what was happening was more than enough to send a rallying bugle call to his loins. A cold surge of panic iced though him at the all-too familiar pressure. His mind began babbling a hopeless litany.

_Not now. Don't even THINK about it...I'll make it up to you later...in the shower...just not now...don't you dare...don't you fucking DARE..._

...

...

...

...it dared.

_Dammit._

Sensing the tension in his body, Spock removed his hands. Inquisitive eyes searched his face. Jim gritted his teeth, trying to keep his face neutral and probably failing miserably at it.

_Don't look, Spock. Please, just don't look. Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook..._

...

...

...

...he looked.

_DAMMIT!_

He averted his eyes, cursing inwardly in every language he knew. His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile.

"Performance art, Mr. Spock." he quipped, "Highly subjective."

"_Jim._"

Reluctantly he dragged his gaze back to Spock's face, steeling himself for whatever he would find in the deep-set eyes—amusement, annoyance, disgust, perhapes even nothing but cool indifference.

He found none of those things.

Instead, he saw a pair of turbulent orbs that had abandoned their usual serenity and now burned into his own with a black, primal fire—a ferocity he had not seen in his friend since grappling with him on the sands of Vulcan. However, whether by his own intuition or some telepathic resonance from Spock, he knew that this was different. The heat in the Vulcan's eyes was not the ravaging brushfire of the _Plak Tow. _It was the tempering blaze of a blacksmith's forge—a fire that purified him of all pretense, all decorum, all secret ache hidden in spoken jest. He knew that look without knowing how he knew it.

Spock of Vulcan _wanted_ him.

Before Jim's mind could even begin to process the information it had just received, Spock's arms were around him, sealing off the gap between their bodies. The collision of torsos and the accompanying onslaught of Vulcan body heat drew another involuntary gasp from his lips and the arms encircling him tightened in response to the tiny sound. Instinctively Jim's own arms found their way around his friend. He cupped the back of Spock's head, threading his fingers through the sleek, impossibly shiny hair that for years had tormented him in is perfection. God, how he'd wanted to muss that hair up.

"Captain_._" Spock's voice rumbled deliciously in his ear. "I have become...rather attached to you."

Despite the simplicity of the words, he spoke them with great difficulty, as though each syllable had been forcibly extracted from his mouth. The magnitude of such an admission was not lost on Jim. He clutched the Vulcan tighter.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," he replied, striving to keep his voice conversational, "For what it's worth, I feel the same way about you. You're a good friend."

Warm lips nuzzled at his earlobe, sending a cascade of shivers down his back. He hissed between his teeth.

"A _damn_ good friend."

A hot alien tongue licked a stripe down the side of his neck.

"Best friend in the...ngghh!"

His train of thought (and quite possibly half his I.Q.) was instantly obliterated the second Spock's leg wrapped around his, trapping his arousal against an answering bulge in the Vulcan's trousers.

"...you're very friendly." he blurted.

"_Jim._" Spock grasped his face in his hands, angling it upward. Human and Vulcan eyes locked together.

"Dearest friend. _Th'y'la_." He spoke the words in a hushed, almost reverent voice.

"What's a th'y'la?"

But instead of forming words of explanation, the Vulcan's lips descended on his.

And Jim was suddenly very glad that he never got around to ordering that hot dog.

**...whoa. If the guy from "I Love Lucy" were reading this chapter, no doubt he would say, "Spocky, you got some a'splainin' to do!" right about now. Trust me, there's a method to my madness.**

**...I think.**

**...I hope.**

**Oh dear. **


	8. Chapter 8

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**...HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER!**

**I thought the last chapter took a ridiculously long time to write, but this one takes the Kirk! The silly thing is that I was actually working on this chapter the whole time. Perfectionism, writer's block and computer crashes are one nasty combination, I tell ya. Alright, now that I've gotten the whining out of my system, let's get back to our irregularly scheduled slash!  
**

**Just so you know, I'm definitely cranking up the dial on the Perv-O-Meter (big shocker there), so consider yourselves warned :) **

**A million heartfelt thank-yous to everyone who has been reviewing this story :D  
**

If there was one thing Jim had come to learn from years of close association with Spock, it was that despite the duality thrust upon him by his parentage, it was not in his nature to do anything by halves. Whatever his natural abilities, Jim was convinced that it was this virtue of character that made him both the greatest Science Officer in the fleet as well as the greatest friend he would ever have the honor of knowing.

Not to mention it made him one hell of a great kisser.

After what paradoxically felt like a heartbeat and a lifetime, Spock relinquished the connection between their lips, pulling away just far enough to stare into the Human's face without bumping noses. Wordlessly they regarded one another, the silence in the tent dissipated only by the ragged breaths that pooled between their mouths. It occurred to Jim that this was the first time he had been granted both the luxury and intimacy of having nothing to do but listen to the sound of Spock breathing. The revelation went straight to his heart. He rested his head beneath the Vulcan's chin and closed his eyes, his universe reduced to nothing but the rhythm of Spock's breath and the warmth of skin pressed against skin.

Although he would have preferred to remain locked in their embrace for as long he could, the possibility of Shindylle's return (which would result in the Vulcan's subsequent non-embarrassment) eventually propelled him to break the spell. He arranged his face into a mock-serious expression.

"So tell me, Mr. Spock: in your scientific opinion, what's it like to kiss your commanding officer?"

"I believe the experience could be described as wet and unsanitary, yet immensely gratifying." was Spock's easy response.

"That's a little subjective, coming from _you_," Jim remarked. He gave the Vulcan's ear a playful tug for emphasis.

"Perhaps." Spock conceded, snatching his hand in a firm grip. He drew Jim's hand to his face and deposited a quick kiss on the underside of his wrist. "At the present, it is difficult to maintain _any_ semblance of objectivity where you are concerned."

Jim eyed his friend with baffled amusement.

_Who are you, and what have you done with the real Spock? _

Despite his elation, he couldn't help but wonder what had triggered the abrupt about-face in the Vulcan's demeanor. Considering the enormous lengths to which he usually went to suppress and conceal his emotions, it was more than a little odd that he would suddenly choose to almost-acknowledge them so freely.

Not that he was going to complain about it.

"Care to specify?"

Petal pink lips tightened in brief contemplation. Jim watched in muted astonishment as the intensity in the Vulcan's gaze increased before his very eyes, like twin phasers going from "stun" to "kill."

"It is not in my nature to speak of such things." Spock replied with a calmness that was completely at odds with the chaos in his eyes.

"However..."

Jim's breath hitched as a slender finger slid along the indentation of his spine.

"I am given to understand that actions are considered by humans to be superior than words."

He splayed his fingers over the small of Jim's back.

"Would you be amendable to a more..._sensory_ form of expression?"

Jim gaped at him, unable to believe what he had just heard.

"By 'sensory' you mean 'sexual?'" he said carefully.

"Correct, Captain."

"Sexual as in...sex?"

"Correct, Captain." Spock repeated, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"...you're asking me if I want to have sex with you."

If the Vulcan thought he was being exceptionally dense he was kind enough not to let on. He simply increased the pressure of his hand on his back, drawing him closer towards himself.

Jim stared at the Vulcan with a dazed expression, inwardly scrambling to re-assemble the fragmented shards of his intellect.

All the time he had spent convinced that the Vulcan's sex drive was buried in a Surakian crypt, only to have it jump out at him like a jack-in-the-box.

_Pop! Goes the libido_.

He released a shaky breath.

"Spock, I have to tell you, this comes as a bit of a surprise to me."

_A BIG surprise, _he thought wryly, noting the protrusion nudging his hipbone.

"An understandable reaction." Lifting a hand to his face, the Vulcan trailed his middle and index fingers over the curve of Jim's cheek.

An unaccustomed shyness stole over him at the tender gesture. He smiled tentatively at the Vulcan

"I've wanted this for a long time." he admitted.

Spock gazed at him levelly.

"I am well aware of that." Despite the certitude in Spock's words there was not a hint of smugness in his voice.

"This is a pretty big step to take in our relationship, Spock. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"_Jim._"

Spock's voice was gentle, insistent.

"You are my closest friend. You are inordinately appealing to me. You are also naked and aroused," he added with a faint twitch of the lip. "I believe that is sufficient enough reason to consummate the urges of our biologies. Should that fail to convince you of my intentions, then understand this."

He clenched his jaw as and closed his eyes. An anomalous emotion flickered across his face, just long enough to alert Jim to its presence without revealing its identity. When he opened his eyes again, they burned with resolution. He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if he were confessing his greatest sin.

"I love you."

Just when he thought he had witnessed all the Spock-related phenomena the universe could hurl at him in one day.

_What did it cost you to tell me this? _

Carefully, deliberately, he covered Spock's hand with his own.

"Spock my friend, we have much to discuss." He laced their fingers together. "I think it's time we return to our bedroom so we take this conversation to its only logical conclusion."

XXX**  
**

Ruthlessly squelching his urge to prolong their newfound affection, Jim was careful to maintain a polite distance from Spock when they emerged from Shindylle's tent. Nothing in the known universe, however, could suppress the painful smile that distorted his face as they walked along the shoreline in tandem. With the Spock-induced adrenaline still careening in his insides, and the knowledge that each stride along the beach was a step closer their shared suite (and bed), it was all he could do to prevent himself from doing naked cartwheels in the sand.

Spock loved him. In light of this knowledge, he doubted that even having a Klingon painstik shoved up his ass would put a dent in his permagrin.

They located Droovin visiting with Shindylle at the now-empty volleyball station, slouching against one of the artificial palm trees that supported the net. Jim chuckled at the bedraggled sight he presented. One of his artificial wings looked like it had been severely abused and now hung limply down his back. Clearly the guest team had done quite the number on him once Spock had taken command. He perked up visibly at their approach, flashing them a broad smile.

"Ready to call it a day, gentlemen?"

His eyes widened in delight as he took in the elaborate configuration of bodypaint on Jim's body.

"Sir, you look fantastic—absolutely perfect."

"Thank you, Droovin." He smiled magnanimously at the Jarillian.

"Tell me honestly, Mr. Spockkirk—have you ever seen such beauty in your life?"

Jim threw an amused glance at the Vulcan, anticipating his response. Spock's gaze fell on him and Jim was struck by the open admiration in the normally guarded face.

"I have not." he said softly. He angled his body toward Shindylle and dipped his head respectfully at her.

"Madam, you have created a remarkable work of art—a true credit to your abilities."

Shindylle ducked her head and swatted away the compliment as if it were a buzzing insect.

"The credit belongs to Mr. Kirkspock, sir; I had very little to do with it,"

Her eyes flickered over to the man-cherub beside her. They exchanged small smiles. Jim's eyes narrowed instinctively at the byplay, but the light touch of Spock's hand on his shoulder blade stopped him from lingering on it. He had better thoughts to occupy his mind with.

"We are ready to return to the mainland at your convenience, Mr. Droovin." Spock said.

The Romance Concierge nodded wisely.

"Anxious to admire Mr. Kirkspock's masterpiece, are we?" He threw a pointed look at the placement of Spock's hand and flashed a conspiratorial smile at Jim, who averted his eyes just in time to dodge the inevitable wink.

He was spared the task of responding by Shindylle, who administered a playful cuff to the back of the man-cherub's head.

"Stop perving out on the guests, sweetie." She rolled her eyes and grinned apologetically at the two friends.

"If he does it again, you have my full permission to give him a good smack."

"Thank you, Shindylle. I just might take you up on that." Jim replied amiably, throwing the Romance Concierge a dark look.

They said goodbye to Shindylle and returned to their beach station to gather up their discarded clothing. Jim bit back smirk at the disappointed frown that pulled at Spock's lips when he stepped into his swim trunks. Quite the far cry from the man who couldn't have cared less when he'd taken them off earlier. Seeing that Droovin had politely turned his back to allow him some privacy while he dressed (something he found highly amusing, considering where they were), he caught Spock's eye and held it, allowing the full extent of his lust to saturate his features.

_Not to worry, Mr. Spock...you'll get your own private exhibit soon enough._

The stare Spock returned him was charged with so much pure, undiluted sex that Jim didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he didn't ejaculate on the spot.

Whether it was out of his ingrained courtesy as a starship captain or some masochistic need to prolong the anticipation of making love with Spock (as if four and a half years wasn't long enough) Jim found himself unable to leave the beach without making good on Norman Stone's invitation for a visit. With Spock's consent they set off for his beach station, Droovin in tow. They found him just ahead of the beach blanket that Spock led them to, jutting out of the shoreline like a bearded rock formation. Joanie was wedged securely between his thighs, her body encased in his massive arms. The couple sat facing the broad expanse of ocean, heedless of the pulsing water that caressed their legs. They made such a serene tableau that Jim was reluctant to disturb them, but before he could turn to leave, Droovin trotted ahead of him, waving vigorously at the couple.

Starting at the _crinkle_ of Droovin's diaper, the older man pried his gaze away from the citrus-colored horizon. A large smile broke through the sea of facial hair at the sight of his visitors. He waved them over.

"How many bumsets does this one make, Mr. Normanjoanie?" asked Droovin without preamble.

"Thirty-two and counting. " He gave the Jarillian a quick once-over.

"Well if it isn't Gorvin's boy—all grown up and _still_ walking around in diapers! At least tell me you can wipe your own ass by now."

Droovin grinned cheekily at the older man.

"Wouldn't _you _like to know!"

Chuckling, Norman nudged his wife.

"Look who's here sweetie; it's James and Spock. And Droovin! Remember Droovin?"

Droovin bowed gracefully at the Jarillian woman.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Joanienorman."

Joanie remained silent. Her lips were slightly parted, a small trail of saliva leaking from the corner of her mouth. Idly Norman brushed the liquid away with the back of his hand before directing his attention on Jim and Spock. He did a double-take.

"Oh ho! Looks like _someone _went and got themselves all gussied up. Good for you!"

Briefly he examined the patterns on Jim's forearms and legs. He shrugged his shoulders

"Can't really make any sense of it, but whatever tickles your pickle, Spock."

Spock blinked in confusion.

"Mr. Stone, I do not _have_ a pickle."

"Figure of speech, Spock." Jim clarified. He bit down on the inside of his cheeks to keep his smile in check.

Personally, he was holding out for a zucchini.

"So, what's on your to do-list now, James Kirk?"

_Spock, actually._

"Not a whole lot," Jim replied vaguely, "We're just on our way to the mainland."

The older man smirked.

"Headed back for some 'Afternoon Delight' I take it?"

Ever inquisitive, Spock turned to Jim for translation.

"'Afternoon Delight,' Captain?"

"I'll explain it later," Jim muttered.

"With visual aids!" Droovin crowed. Norman sniggered into his beard. Jim shot the Romance Concierge a silencing glare.

"That's enough, Droovin."

"Yeah, you heard the man—stop giving James here a _hard time_." Norman glanced expectantly at the Jarillian, who immediately caught the verbal pass.

"You're absolutely right, sir...I'll leave that to Mr. Spockkirk."

They erupted into raucous laughter. Jim gritted his teeth and reminded himself that in less than an hour he would be writhing in pleasure under Spock's body. Provided that he didn't kill the man-cherub before then. Vaguely he wondered how Spock could maintain his placidity in the face of such perversity.

After he had composed himself, Norman fixed him with a thoughtful stare.

"So you undertook the _J'seya yi sleya. _That brings back some memories. All good, of course," he added, his eyes twinkling.

"Joanie and I were painted for our wedding—a traditional Jarillian ceremony. Best week of my life. Too bad you only get the rinse-and-go tourist version here. Although..." His voice tapered off and he peered at Spock curiously. "...it might be better for _you_ in the long run, James—one week of the sexypaint and you might wind up with an asshole the size of a grapefruit."

Drooving giggled appreciatively.

Jim flinched as if he had bitten into a sheet of tinfoil. He wasn't sure what set him more on edge: the content of Norman's words or the canny expression on his face as he said them. It was one thing for Spock and him to be thought of as lovers on vacation—it was another thing altogether for them to be stared at as if people half-expected them to start copulating on the spot.

And was it his own sex-charged imagination, or was Spock _himself_ staring at him as if he half-expected them to start copulating on the spot?

_Curiouser and curiouser._

"You two seem fairly chummy with one another," he said, hoping to divert the two men (and himself) from their current conversation track, "Have you known each other long?"

"Ever since he was a raunchy little tadpole in his daddy's loins," Norman grinned fondly at the man-cherub.

"My father also worked at _Cupid's Cove._" said Droovin.

"Best damned Romance Concierge we ever had," Norman added, "He sat with my Joanie and me during our very first bumset."

"Bumset?" Spock tilted his head inquisitively. "I am not familiar with that word."

"Aw, it's just something Joanie came up with a long time ago. See, every time we come to _Cupid's Cove,_ we go to the naked beach on the first day and watch the sunset together—one of our traditions. But Joanie always used to say that whenever I sit down to watch the sun sink into the ocean, everyone else on the beach watches my bum sinking into the sand. A _bum_-set. Get it?"

Jim didn't think Spock could look any more perplexed if he had been presented with anomalous sensor readings.

"It's a joke, Spock."

"Ah, yes. Humor." Spock replied gravely. "You must excuse me for not laughing; my Vulcan psychology does not include an understanding of most forms of humor."

Norman shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, son—there's not a whole lot of non-Vulcans who get Joanie's humor either. She's an odd one, my Joanie-girl."

He planed a kiss on the top of Joanie's head.

"How is she doing these days?" asked Droovin.

Some of the levity departed from the bearded features.

"Depends on which doctor you ask. They say her vitals are all fine, but that's about all they can really tell me with any certainty. Damned quacks."

"Have _you_ noticed any changes, sir?"

Norman sighed.

"I dunno. Maybe. Sometimes I'll have my moments when I could swear there's something different on her face. And every once in a while it'll look like she's looking right at me, but it's hard to know for sure. Don't want to get my hopes up. Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see, or I'm misinterpreting it, like how you always want to think that a newborn is smiling at you when it's really just taking a shit."

He lowered his head and peered intently into the woman's eyes.

"Are you in there, Joanie-girl?" he murmured.

Moving into the ankle-deep water in front of the couple, Droovin squatted on his haunches and took one of Joanie's limp hands between his palms. He squeezed it gently, then lifted his eyes to meet Norman's.

"She's in there, Mr. Normanjoanie...and she loves you."

Norman favored the Romance Concierge with a grim smile.

"I hope you're right, kid."

"I _know_ I'm right."

They spent several more minutes in idle chitchat until Jim noticed that Norman's eyes were beginning to stray towards the sunset with increased frequency. Taking that as his cue to let the couple to enjoy the rest of their special ritual in privacy, he bid them farewell and trekked with Droovin and Spock to the other side of the island where their watercraft awaited.

His thoughts took a whimsical turn as the boat disengaged from the shore and skimmed along the surface of the ocean. As the distance between the watercraft and the free beach continued to increase, he felt as if he were slowly being roused from a bizarre but highly enjoyable dream. He shifted his gaze to Spock, irrationally seeking assurance that he was, in fact, corporeal and not just a dream within that dream. Gilded in the reflected glory of the sunset, the severe features he had grown to love did indeed appear to have taken on an ethereal quality. An inexplicable ache thrummed to life within him.

_Too good to be true_, he thought wistfully.

The Vulcan acknowledged his stare with an inquisitive tilt of an eyebrow, and with that one familiar gesture, he ceased to be an elusive dream and was once again Spock: his very real (and very attractive) Science Officer. He smiled at his partner and allowed his embryonic misgivings to evaporate under the warmth of their camaraderie.

**XXX  
**

When they were once again docked at the pier on the mainland, Droovin halted Jim's departure from the watercraft with a light tap on the shoulder.

"Might I have a word with you, Mr. Kirkspock? In private?" He glanced meaningfully at Spock.

"Certainly." Jim stifled his impatience. "Go on ahead, Spock—I'll be with you shortly."

Nodding his assent, Spock climbed out of the boat and started toward the hotel.

Droovin followed the Vulcan with his eyes for a moment before fixing his attention on Jim. He folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"Sir, I just wanted you to know that as your personal Romance Concierge, I am more than happy to assist you and your lifemate in any manner you need."

"Yes, Droovin, I believe you've already mentioned that." Jim replied absently. He cast a quick glance at Spock's retreating backside, anxious to join his companion.

Leaning forward in his seat, the Romance Concierge lowered his voice confidentially.

"Just so you're aware, this also includes matters of the bedroom."

Jim groaned inwardly. He should've known where this was going.

"If you need any special equipment to enhance your lovers activities, please don't hesitate to let me know."

Briefly Jim flirted with the thought of resorting to his "Spock is not my lover"defense, but he decided it just wasn't worth it anymore. Amazing, really, how a horny Vulcan could put things into perspective for him.

"Thank you Droovin," he said in the weary voice he used for chatty ensigns.

"If you don't mind my asking, will this be your first sexual encounter with another man?"

Even still, he _did _have his limits. His tolerant smile began to decompose.

"That's a _very_ personal question." he said in a tone that did not invite further discussion. Undeterred, Droovin pressed on.

"Because if this _is_ your first time, there are some things you should know about preparing the body for penetration—if that's the route you are taking. Might I suggest you start with a warm bath to cleanse and relax the sphincter?"

Jim resisted the urge to lift his eyes to heavens and ask the universe what he had done to deserve this.

"And if you are planning on doing some, er, 'manual spelunking', you might want to give your fingernails a good trim beforehand. I'm sure Mr. Spockkirk would appreciate it. I know _I _would..."

Jim rose from his seat.

"Alright, Droovin, I think we're done here. If you'll excuse me..."

"Honestly, Mr. Kirkspock!" Droovin protested, pursing his lips in wounded indignation, "There's nothing to be embarassed about; we're both grown men."

He adjusted his diaper.

"You told me that when you arrived here that you and Mr. Spockkirk are not lovers. You are about to take a very important step in your relationship and I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into...if you'll pardon the choice of words."

"That's a pretty big assumption to make about two people who've already made it clear to you that they _aren't _lovers," said Jim, his voice full of reproach. "Would you care to tell me exactly _how_ you divined that information?"

The Jarillian looked at him with the bored impatience of a genius who had just been asked to add two and two.

"With all due respect, Mr. Kirkspock, it's not exactly a grand mystery...especially considering the way Mr. Spockkirk has been looking at you lately."

_So he's noticed it too._

That in itself was enough to send his intuition into high tide. Whatever his private feelings for him, the Spock he knew would never intentionally broadcast his sexy vibes on a public channel. His mind began to churn.

_Party's over, Kirk. _

He lowered himself back onto his seat.

"I don't know how familiar you are with the Vulcan race, but you should at least know that it's highly unlikely that one would show emotion in public—let alone in private. Not unless something was severely wrong."

He said the words as much to himself as to the Jarillian. How the hell had he failed to acknowledge this crucial piece of information the first time Spock looked at him with human's eyes?

"Yes, I've heard that Vulcans are quite reticent." said Droovin.

Jim glanced at him sharply.

"And yet, you don't seem alarmed by the change in Spock's behavior. I can only assume it's because you had something to do with it."

He fixed the Romance Concierge with the full intensity of his glare.

"What have you done to my friend?"

The man-cherub stretched his lips into one of his infuriating grins.

"The question you should be asking, Mr. Kirkspock, is: What have _you_ done to your friend?"

"What have _I_.." his voice trailed off as the implication of Droovin's words stitched together a patchwork formed from the innuendos and knowing looks he had received in the last hour.

"The bodypaint." His stomach lurched. "He's reacting to the bodypaint, isn't he?"

"Sexypaint" indeed.

His eyes flew to the Romance Concierge's face, finding confirmation in the giddy smile that awaited him.

"Perhaps, Mr. Spockkirk received his sprinkle of love dust after all..."

"Love dust." Jim muttered.

So it _had _been a dream after all. Too good to be true.

He gripped his seat to brace himself against the surge of anger and humiliation that threatened to engulf him.

Of course Spock didn't want him. Hadn't he already made it clear that they would never be in a sexual relationship? Why would a man with as much personal integrity as Spock set such a clear boundary in their relationship if he had no intention of actually maintaining it?

It was not logical.

Deliberate failure to commit to a predetermined decision would constitute a lie.

And Vulcan's didn't lie.

Willing the emotional maelstrom to subside, he continued his inquiry.

"I've been in contact with a few people since the painting, but Spock is the only one who's been affected by it. _Why?_"

"Now that is an excellent question indeed."

"Cut the double-talk, Droovin; I need answers. By all rights Spock should be the last person to have an emotional reaction to some artwork. Why is he the only one affected?"

"Well, you know what you humans say: 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder.'"

_Wink._

Jim leapt to his feet.

"Is this some kind of _joke_ to you? One of my officers has been severely compromised...he thinks he's in _love _with me!" He took a menacing step towards the Jarillian. "If you don't tell me how to cure him, you'll be needing that diaper of yours for more than just a fashion statement. I will see to it _personally. _Do I make myself clear?"

The lackadaisical smile melted off the man-cherub's face.

"I don't know why your species persists in speaking of love like it's some sort of sickness," he said coolly, "If that's the kind of juvenile attitude you have, then perhaps _you _ought to be the one in the diaper, Mr. Kirkspock. You can't _cure_ love."

"I'm not interested in your philosophies, dammit!" Jim retorted. He paused for a moment to reign in his temper and began again, speaking in a more controlled voice.

"This isn't about love—it's about _Spock_. His physical and mental well-being could be at stake...who knows what kind of damage has been done to his Vulcan mind! I don't know what kind of sick, emotional gratification you get from playing 'Cupid,' but if you value love even half as much as you would have me believe, then tell me how to help him."

"You needn't fear for Mr. Spockkirk's safety, sir."said Droovin, his face softened with pity. "You forget that you are at a lovers resort. Under normal circumstances the _J'seya yi sleya _is a service we provide only for couples in a mutual, consenting relationship. Believe me when I say that it's completely harmless; it wouldn't be all that great for business if it were otherwise. If you wish to alleviate Mr. Spockkirk's reaction to the bodypaint, then I suggest you remove the bodypaint itself—a simple rinse with soap and water should do the job."

Jim nodded. Growling his reluctant thanks, he stepped onto the dock.

"Mr. Kirkspock?" Droovin called after him.

He turned around wearily.

"He really _does_ love you."

Balling his hands into fists to prevent a decidedly non-diplomatic gesture from hoisting up, he stormed away without acknowledging the Jarillian's words.

XXX

_Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!_

Each step he pounded into the floor was a corresponding syllable to his litany of curses as he marched down the hallway that led to their shared suite.

How could have been so careless?

All the time he had spent priding himself on knowing Spock better than anyone in the universe, and he had allowed wishful thinking and Kirkian arrogance to override the numerous yellow alerts that had thrummed to life over the last hour.

As if Spock would deliberately throw Vulcan to the wind over a paint job and a boner.

How could he have been so stupid?

As if Spock would ever love him.

His mouth twisted into a cynical smile as he punched in the access code to their room.

"_Lovebirds." What a joke._

He heard the click of the release lock. Gripping the doorknob until his fingers hurt, he paused for a moment to galvanize his resolve, drawing from the well of captainly responsibility that had forced him to make some difficult decisions concerning his friend in the past.

If he could be willing to sacrifice Spock's life in the line of duty, then surely he could sacrifice his love on the alter of reality.

He swung the door open and strode inside.

"Spock, listen: there's something I have to..."

His voice faded into oblivion at the sight that assailed his eyes. Sprawled on the bed like a bored aristocrat in a Renaissance painting was Spock.

A very naked Spock.

"Welcome back, Captain."

A tapered eyebrow (among other things) lifted invitingly at him.

Jim's lips twitched into a self-deprecating smirk at his own Pavlovian response.

_I should have known, _he thought wryly.

Leave it to the Vulcan to make things harder than necessary.


	9. Chapter 9

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**...aaaaand finally, after two and a half re-writes...here it is! HUZZAH! *throws confetti* You'd think that writing a chapter involving a naked and horny Vulcan would be a fangirl's dream, but it's amazing how the muse can refuse to cooperate. The whole time I was writing this chappie I had this total Smeagol/Gollum thing going on with my muse. First it was like: "The smexiness...we wants it. We needs it. Must have the smexiness!" and then, BAM! it was like: "No, No! It's too risky. It's too risky." Then I just sort of ended up rocking myself back and forth sobbing, "I hate you, I hate you." **

**...yeah, so it looks like Smeagol won this time around. To tell the truth, I was a bit surprised at how tame this chapter ended up being, aside from the usual juvenile, phallus-related perviness. It's actually gone down a bit in this chapter (*snerk*). Hope you enjoy!  
**

**Warnings for this chapter are mostly for mild perv and schmoop. **

The Spockian penis was truly a marvel of male biology, Jim decided as he tried unsuccessfully to regulate his frantic heart rate. When safely encased within the confines of the Vulcan's trousers, it was as utilitarian and subtle as proper grammar. When visible and elevated in all its green glory, its presence had the same effect as misplaced punctuation—it changed _everything. _

For a moment Jim was rooted to the spot, immobilized like a peasant in the presence of Sex Almighty. Inwardly he chided himself for the swift loss of his composure. So Spock was naked. Big deal. Considering that he had just returned from a nude beach—a veritable smorgasbord of genitalia—surely the sight of just one more did not merit such a powerful reaction.

Even if it _was_ green. And immaculately manicured. And attached to Spock.

The Vulcan's eyes fell on him expectantly. Jim swallowed hard. Twin prickles of sweat burst to life beneath his armpits as the unabashed gaze strolled down the length and of his body and up again with maddening leisure.

_Jesus, Spock! Where did you learn to be so seductive?_

It occurred to him that in his angst over Spock's condition, he had not even bothered to consider how he should broach the subject with him. Nor had he considered the possibility that his own libido might hold a spontaneous mutiny. How the hell was he supposed to convince either that engaging in frenzied copulation was _not_, in fact, the greatest idea since the invention of the warp drive?

He fixed his eyes on the vase of roses on the nightstand, not daring to look at the wanton creature reclining beside him. A mental image came, unbidden to him: Spock standing above the trash receptacle, indifferently discarding a handful of rose petals. A sad smile touched his lips at the memory. _That_ had been the real Spock.

"Captain, are you alright?"

The use of his title jarred him back to reality.

_Captain. _ How many times had he chided Spock for clinging to formalities when they were off-duty? Although he knew it was just a token of the Vulcan's inherent politeness, hearing it from Spock during their down time had always rankled him. It was just one more brick in the Tower of Spock, politely reinforcing his place on the outside.

_Captain. _Even in the clutch of a Jarillian love spell (or whatever the hell it was), the Vulcan was quick to remind him of the nature of their relationship. Yes, he _was _Spock's captain. The captain who, on the bridge, would never permit the luxury of hesitation during a Red Alert. The captain who could not afford to hesitate now, even if the roaring in his ears was not the klaxon, but the clamoring of his own pulse.

"We need to talk." he muttered. "_Now._"

He strode across the carpet and sat at the edge of the bed. Immediately Spock scooted over to join him. One of the Vulcan's bare thighs brushed against his and his breath hitched at the involuntary (voluntary?) contact. He kept his gaze fastened on the vase of roses, childishly pretending that his eyes would burst into flame if they looked anywhere else. The last thing he needed was even more burning anatomy.

"How long has it been since you first saw me wearing the bodypaint?" he inquired.

"One hour and eighteen minutes."

The Vulcan's easy answer gave him a small measure of reassurance. Whatever his strange affliction, at least his intellect didn't appear to have been affected. Some of the tension left his shoulders. He could do this.

"Spock, listen. I know you would rather not talk about emotional matters, but I need you to put aside your own preferences for the moment and answer me honestly."

Reluctantly he dragged his eyes away from the vase and angled his body towards his friend, careful to keep his gaze above shoulder level.

"The last time we were alone together, you made it very clear that you intend to make love to me. How long have you wanted this?"

"One hour and seventeen minutes." Spock replied.

_Dammit!_

Pushing his own feelings aside for the time being, he pressed on.

"Judging from the math, am I to assume that you were not interested in a relationship with me prior to seeing me in the tent?"

Spock froze. His eyes widened in faint alarm. Jim held his gaze unflinchingly.

"Answer the question, Commander!"

The Vulcan lowered his head.

"That is correct, Captain." he said softly.

_...dammit._

"An interesting development, Mr. Spock...especially from someone who prides himself on logic and consistency. The last time we were in this room together you told me—in no uncertain terms—that we would never be sexually involved. Either you were lying to me, or you changed your mind for no apparent reason, neither of which seems consistent _or_ logical."

His words were coated with acid, despite his best intentions to keep his manner calm and professional.

"Indeed." Spock murmured, not bothering to look at him.

For the fourth time that day, Jim watched as a deep green flush crawled up the ivory neck and spread to the tips of his ears. For the first time that day he derived no pleasure from it. He doubted that even McCoy at his prickliest would be able to to find any satisfaction in drawing the Vulcan's blood like this.

_Let it go, Kirk. This isn't about you._

Whatever his own feelings, it wouldn't do to spill any more venom on his naked and vulnerable friend. When he spoke again, it was in gentler tones.

"You also told me that where there is emotion, there is also choice—that it was simply a matter of exercising rational thought and self-discipline."

Jim winced inwardly at pained expression that flashed across Spock's face. Tentatively he placed a hand on Spock's forearm.

"Spock, I _know_ you. You would never violate your principles on a whim. Not unless there was something else—an outside source—impeding your ability to think rationally or maintain your self-control. After talking with Droovin, I have reason to believe that your feelings towards me have been influenced, if not directly caused, by the bodypaint I'm wearing."

For the next several minutes Spock listened intently as Jim described his conversation with Droovin and systematically set about the task of destroying his illusory love. Sitting in a naked parody of his "Science Officer in deep contemplation" pose: hunched forward with steepled fingers, he was uncharacteristically silent as Jim guided him through a labyrinth of conjecture and recalled innuendo. Despite his inability to provide his friend with any scientific data to back up his claims, the Vulcan hung onto his words as if he were Surak incarnate. Although he was grateful that Spock had enough presence of mind to be willing to hear him out, he couldn't help but wish that he would at least _try_ to offer some resistance to such an outlandish scenario.

"So what do you think?" he asked after he finished his discourse, "Do you suppose there's any truth to any of this, or am I the one muddled by paint fumes?"

Spock turned thoughtful eyes on him.

"It does corroborate with Miss Shindylle's description of the _J'seya yi sleya _being an 'intimate and enjoyable experience,' Captain."

His gaze drifted southward.

"The evidence would suggest that the bodypaint serves as an aphrodisiac of sorts."

Despite his barely contained turmoil, Jim couldn't help but feel a sliver of mirth at the sight of his First Officer objectively examining his own arousal as if he was studying a new species of fungi. His lips curved slightly. Hard evidence indeed.

"What I don't understand is how an aphrodisiac could be powerful enough for a Vulcan but selective enough to only have an affect on one person," Jim said. "Why are you the only one who fell in love with me?"

"I am afraid that is indeterminable at the moment." Spock replied evenly.

"Any speculations?"

"There is the possibility that it is not the chemical make-up of the bodypaint, but rather the composition of the artwork itself, that has generated my...amatory reaction."

"A psychological aphrodisiac?"

"In a manner of speaking. It might provide some insight as to why I am the only one reacting to it. A chemical aphrodisiac would likely have a broader area of effect."

Jim shook his head ruefully.

"Must be some powerful psychology to make _you_ fall in love with me," he remarked.

He regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth. The feeble spark that the Vulcan had managed to regain in his eyes was instantly extinguished.

"So it would seem," he muttered. His voice was gravelled with an indiscernible emotion. "It is...most regrettable."

Jim frowned.

_What do you regret, Spock: the fact that you felt love for once in your life or the fact that the object of that love was me?_

He opened his mouth to say as much, but words disintegrated on his lips when he noticed the downcast slant to to Spock's head, so different from his usual eyes-forward stoicism. Remarkably, it was that one small gesture that unsettled him more than anything he had witnessed from Spock that day. He had seen more than his share of Spockish anomalies over the years (most of them as a result of mind-controlling entities) but only once could he recall the proud brow brought so low: the day he spoke of the _Pon Farr—_the shame of his race. What agonies of humiliation must he be suffering to permit the wilt in his posture now?

By comparison, his own feelings were those of a spoiled child deprived of a stolen plaything. He would certainly throw his temper tantrum—he knew he wasn't noble enough to avoid it entirely—but damned if he was going to say or do anything to add even one more milimeter to the sag in Spock's shoulders. For now, he would have to settle for sweeping up the shards of an unintented love and banishing them into the darkest recesses of his being—the same place that had welcomed the shards of Edith and Miramanee and exchanged them for a captain's pragmatism.

"There's no point in talking about it right now," he said. "Our first priority is getting you back to normal."

The Vulcan remained silent.

"Droovin might have been stingy with the details, but he _did_ tell me that the effects of the bodypaint would go away if I washed it off. If you need me for anything, I'll be in the bathroom, scrubbing off the graffiti."

Spock nodded and managed a curt "very well."

Reluctantly he lifted his head and met Jim's gaze. They exchanged brisks nods: a seemingly banal gesture, but one that pierced through the thick miasma of Jim's heartache and flooded him with reassurance. It was the gesture he had grown to rely on during the last four and a half years of his captaincy. The gesture of hope. The unspoken contract between comrades that spoke of a will to stand together and deflect whatever manner of shit that the capricious monkeys of the universe decided to fling at them. He left the bedside bolstered with a new confidence. They were going to be okay.

XXX

When Jim emerged from the shower half an hour later, tousle-haired and scrubbed to a newborn's pink under a thick white bathrobe, he saw that Spock had migrated to the suite's balcony. He also noted (with mingled relief and disappointment) that he was fully clothed. Meditation robes. So much for an evening of wining and dining with the Vulcan.

For a moment he lingered behind the sliding glass door separating them, content to watch as Spock stood in silent repose by the railing overlooking the cove. The slight tilt to the head and loosely clasped hands behind the back told him that a measure of serenity had returned to his friend and he breathed a small sigh of relief. His own tension (as well as certain tension-related fluids) had largely been sapped under the wet heat of the shower and he was more than ready for normalcy to return.

Wordlessly he stepped outside and took his habitual place beside his friend. The Vulcan did nothing to acknowledge his presence, nor did Jim push for any sort of interaction. Considering all the drama that had previously engulfed them, it was enough just to be able to stand at Spock's shoulder and enjoy an evening's reprieve. He smiled faintly at the cozy tableau they must make, standing side by side in their respective black and white robes like a couple of chess pieces. A knight and a pawn.

The sunset had folded into the wild blue of the evening dusk, converging with its reflected counterpart in the ocean, and the accompanying breeze stirred in his hair and cooled his shower-heated skin. Despite the cloak of melancholy that had settled on him, he found himself gripped with an eery sort of peace—the bittersweet serentiy of a mourner who could not stand by a gravestone without being soothed by the allure of the flowers that adorned it.

It was Spock who finally broke the silence.

"I trust you were successful in your endeavor to remove the bodypaint?"

"Yes, Mr. Spock," Jim replied with as much geniality as he could muster. "Just as Droovin said, it was nothing a little soap and water couldn't get rid of...although I would have brought my own soap if I had known we were going to be staying at a lovers resort. I trust you will not think it a poor reflection of my manliness that I smell like strawberries and champagne?"

"Negative."

Jim chuckled, half-relieved, half-disappointed that he didn't receive a lecture on the inefficiency of gender associations. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the metal railing in front of them.

"So how are you holding up? Getting back to normal?"

Spock hesitated, and Jim heard the faintest of sighs.

"Emotions run deep in Vulcans. When roused they are volatile, and require some effort to suppress."

So in other words, he wasn't quite there yet.

"Is there anything you need? A doctor, perhaps?"

"Negative."

"Are you sure? That was a pretty big 180 you pulled on me."

Another small sigh.

"Captain, I can assure you that I have suffered no ill-effects that cannot be remedied by meditation and rest—both of which will be delayed by the pursuit of unnecessary medical attention. If it will allay your concerns, I will submit myself to a full physical and psychological examination upon our return to the _Enterprise. _In the meantime, however, I suggest we proceed with our shore leave as intended."

Jim released his grip on the railing and turned around, fixing Spock with a mock-stern expression.

"Have it your way, but don't think I won't be keeping a close eye on you." He wagged a forefinger in a vague impersonation of McCoy for emphasis.

"I never do." Spock replied dryly.

Jim chuckled, grateful for the offering of normalcy. He could feel the last of his tension evaporating as if they were of no more consequence than the water droplets drying in his hair. It made what he had to say next all the easier.

"Spock, I owe you an apology."

Immediately the Vulcan stiffened.

"Unnecessary."

Jim ignored his dismissal and pressed on.

"I shouldn't have been in such a rush to have my body painted. If I would have known..."

"...you did _not _know," Spock interjected, directing his words to the ocean. "Dwelling on what would have happened under different circumstances will not change that. "

"I just wish I wouldn't have done this to you, even if it was unintentional."

"You speak as if you have committed an offense against me. You have not."

Jim regarded him incredulously.

"Haven't I?"

"My behavior a result of my having strayed from the path of logic," Spock insisted. "The bodypaint may have provided me with the incentive, but the decision to act upon it was my own. You are not responsible for my deviance. It is illogical to assign blame where none is due."

Jim shook his head in confusion.

"Spock, I'm not following you. What sort of incentive did the bodypaint provide?"

When Spock didn't answer him immediately he added, "I'm asking this in the interest of science."

A bald-faced lie, of course, but if it would help Spock to save face and get him some answers he was all for it.

The Vulcan raised his head and stared at the waxing moon in the sky with a thoughtful expression.

"I have frequently noted that there is an inherent desire among humans to possess that which they consider good. Your Earth history is riddled with accounts of wars waged for that very reason."

Jim smiled, puzzled by the non-sequiter, and decided to humor his friend.

"One of our many, many quirks, Mr. Spock," he conceded.

"It has also been my observation that humans hold the concept of beauty in high esteem. That which is considered beautiful is often perceived as being inherently good."

Jim tossed him a curious glance.

"Are you actually going somewhere with this?"

Spock kept his gaze trained on the moon for a little longer, looking for all the world as if he expected the shimmering crescent to telepathically supply him with the words to say. Idly Jim wondered if he had any idea how human he looked at that moment. Not that he could ever tell him that.

"It is difficult to articulate the nature of my reaction to the bodypaint, Captain," Spock admitted finally. "As a scientist, I prefer the objective and the concrete. My reaction, however, was a subjective response to an abstract work of art."

Jim suppressed the urge to smile at the chagrin in his voice. He nodded for him to continue.

"When I saw the artwork on your body, my eyes took in the colors and patterns, and I perceived them as being representative of some of your more...favorable qualities. In them I saw your intelligence, your resourcefulness, your tenacity—characteristics I have long associated with you—among other things. I could hardly understand it then, and I am somewhat at a loss to explain it now, but it was as if I were looking at a visual representation of everything that makes you you. Your living essence: mapped out on the contours of your body. The intangible made visible. The effect was...most agreeable."

Jim smiled wistfully at the memory of the Vulcan's confused enthusiasm.

"You called it beautiful," Jim murmured.

Spock grimaced and closed his eyes.

"And, in the tradition of my mother's race, I looked upon that which was pleasing to the eye, I saw that it was good, and I longed to claim it for myself."

His lips thinned into a hard line.

"That, Captain," he said in a dull growl, "was the incentive provided by the bodypaint. Although you are correct in your assumption that my feelings for you were influenced by the bodypaint, you should not be so quick to exonerate me. My behavior was inexcusable."

Jim stared at his friend in muted astonishment as the implications of his words settled in. The guilty shift in the Vulcan's eyes confirmed his dawning suspicion.

Spock had known about the bodypaint all along.

He almost laughed out loud at his own failure see it earlier. _Of course_ Spock would have known! Wasn't he usually the first to recognize these sort of things?

No wonder he had been so willing to accept the possibility that he was not quite himself. No wonder he had been so quick to supply his own theories about the effects of the _J'seya yi sleya. _He had been like a man in a lucid dream: fully aware of the discrepancies but willing to ride out the enjoyment of his altered reality until necessity forced him to awaken.

No wonder he had been so ashamed.

When Jim finally found the words to speak, he was surprised at how level his voice was.

"And I suppose you believe you deserve a reprimand?"

Drawing himself to his full height, the Vulcan pulled his shoulders back and returned his stare to the ocean—the consummate professional once again.

"If you deem it necessary, I will respectfully submit myself for disciplinary action, sir."

Jim smiled at the exaggerated formality in his voice. He took an advancing step towards his friend.

"Is that so?" He practically purred the words. "What sort of disciplinary measures do you think you deserve?"

The Vulcan tightened his jaw.

"You are my commanding officer," he replied staunchly. "I will defer to your judgment in this matter."

Jim nodded.

"Have it your way, but just remember: my judgment is final."

"Of course."

"Alright, let's get it over with. Close your eyes. Don't move."

Spock tilted his head inquisitively.

"Captain?"

"That's an order."

Spock's eyes fluttered shut. Jim moved in front of him and gently gripped his shoulders. Before he could talk himself out of the madness propelling him, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against the Vulcan's.

It was as chaste a kiss as he could make it: a swift peck against firm and unyielding lips. Dutifully Spock remained still, and when Jim drew back, he was amused to see that he still had his eyes closed. He waited for Spock to open them, and smiled gently at the confusion he saw in the brown irises.

"I figured the punishment should fit the crime," he explained.

He welcomed the sight of the Lifted Brow like a dearly-missed friend.

"A most unorthodox form of discipline, Captain." Spock remarked, not missing a beat. "I would strongly advise against employing it on some of your less sensible crew members, lest it fail to deter them from their misbehavior."

A fond chuckle slipped out of Jim's throat. Only Spock could lecture so confidently from the security of his ivory tower so shortly after putting away his jade battering ram.

Unable to resist, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him. The Vulcan's own arms remained motionless at his sides. Were it from anyone else, the lack of response would have been a deterrent, but the complete lack of tension in his body told him that it was a concession. He curled his fingers around the nape of Spock's neck and gently pulled him in until their foreheads were pressed together. Even with the added proximity Spock did not recoil. Vaguely Jim wondered if his docility was due to some leftover effects of the _J'seya yi sleya, _or if it was a sign of his implicit trust. God, he hoped it was the latter.

"Spock, if you won't accept an apology, would you at least accept my thanks?" he implored.

Spock eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

"I fail to understand what I have done to merit your gratitude."

"You loved me."

"Jim, I cannot..." Spock started to pull away, but Jim held firm.

"Don't even _think_ about finishing that sentence, mister!"

He waited for Spock to relax again before continuing.

"Spock, I know that emotions are an anathema to your way of life, and I won't ask you to abandon your Vulcan sensibilities, but surely you've come to understand that for a human, there is no greater joy than to love and be loved in return. There is an old Earth saying that says 'one man's trash is another man's treasure.' You may look at the things you felt for me and view them with regret, but I think it's only right that you know that I don't. Whatever your reasons, and regardless of how long it lasted, I am...honored that you loved me, Spock. Thank you."

He contracted his arms around the Vulcan. Again, Spock did not move, nor did Jim expect him to. Realistically he knew that this would probably be the last time Spock would permit such close physical contact, and he intended to make the most of it. Shamelessly he held on to his friend, squeezing until his muscles ached and trembled from the strain. Finally, fatigued from the exertion, he nestled his head into Spock's shoulder nook, allowing his lips to rest against the side of his neck. The Vulcan's pulse throbbed warm and fast and strong against his mouth. Common sense told him that the rapid staccato was likely due to his Vulcan physiology, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had contributed to it in any way.

Eventually it became clear to him that despite his lack of participation, Spock would allow him to maintain his embrace for as long as he wanted. Reluctantly he loosened his grip and stepped back, searching his friend's face in blatant defiance of his own instinct to avert his eyes. The Vulcan regarded him serenely, as if he had done nothing more than slap him jovially on the back.

"Would you prefer if I left you to meditate in private?" Jim asked.

"That would be preferable." Spock said. "I apologize if it is an inconvenience."

"Not at all. I'm sure I can find ways to keep myself entertained."

Right now, the thought of finding a certain diaper-clad pervert and beating some answers out of him was infinitely entertaining. He didn't know whether it was intuition or idolization fostering his reluctance to grant Spock permission to fall on his logic-sword over the Bodypaint Incident, but he knew there way in hell he could let it happen without exhausting all the other possibilities. He owed him that much.

He gave Spock's shoulder an affectionate pat before starting for the inside of the suite.

"Jim."

The word was spoken so softly it could have mistaken it for the stirring of the tide. Jim paused and turned to acknowledge his friend. He could actually see the heave in Spock's chest as he took in a bracing intake of air. The Vulcan fixed his eyes on him resolutely.

"You have spoken of the great value you humans place on love. In light of this, I am compelled to acknowledge that were I to be the recipient of such an emotion—as illogical as it may be—it would be the highest honor I could receive from one of your race. 'Thank you,' I believe, would be the appropriate response."

Jim gazed at his Vulcan and wondered how someone so devoted to the rejection of emotion could be so skillful at wringing it out of others. He found himself grateful that his features were murky in the descending nightfall and hoped that the other's keen eyesight would not pick up on the embarrassing liquid he had to blink from eyes.

"Anytime, Spock," he murmured. "Anytime."

**More bodypaint a'splainin' to come :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

***comes out of hiding place***

***peeks around corner***

**...hello? Is anyone still here?**

**So yeah, it's been a while. I'm tempted to launch into a huge spiel about why I haven't updated in so long, but that's kinda boring, and this chapter is long enough as it is. If anyone is truly interested in getting glimpses of my seven month trudge through the land of "Holy Crap, I Can't Freakin' Write," I've been posting little story progress updates on my profile page. The least you need to know is that I'm slow but determined, and I am eternally grateful to everyone who has been willing to stick it out with me. **

** Enough about me, let's talk about story warnings. Aside from the usual perv and profanity, I don't really have any. Unless you think you should be warned about OC-centric chapters, that is. Yeah, it's very OC-centric. Sorry' bout that. I'll make it up to you in awkward sexual tension later, I swear!  
**

When Spock had informed him of his need to spend time in meditation, Jim had not been surprised in the least. Considering how severely his emotions had been compromised by the bodypaint, it was only natural that the Vulcan would want to delve into his own consciousness to purge any remaining sensuality from his system. What did surprise him, however, was that he fully intended to accomplish this in a room designed to facilitate carnal pleasure. Throwing his friend a final glance before he left him to his privacy, Jim couldn't help but smile at the paradox he presented. Draped in a heavy black robe and sitting a mere arm's reach away from a canopy bed (with a ceiling mirror, no less), surrounded by a crescent of candles (vanilla-scented, no less), logic had never been sexier. Only Spock could try to suppress his own sexuality looking like he belonged in a holoporn.

_Good luck with that,_ Jim thought fondly as he closed the door behind him.

Resigned to a Spockless evening, Jim made his way to the hotel lobby to arrange a meeting with Droovin, his mind burning with unanswered questions. His conversation with Spock had shed some light on the nature of his reaction to the bodypaint, but he still wasn't any closer to understanding how it could have affected him in the first place. Although he did not relish the thought of conversing with the giddy Jarillian so shortly after an encounter with a naked Spock, he had a sneaking suspicion that the Romance Concierge was his best chance of understanding what had just happened, provided that he could get him to reveal more about the _J'seya yi sleya_ itself.

The lobby receptionist ground his plans into dust with a cheery smile.

"My deepest apologies Mr. Kirkspock, but Droovin is assisting the entertainment staff this evening and will not be available until the end of the Venus Ball. Shall I arrange for another Romance Concierge to see to your romantic needs in the meantime?"

Jim suppressed a shudder at the unfortunate choice in words.

"Thank you, no. Would you mind taking a message for him?"

"Certainly, Mr. Kirkspock."

"Tell him that Mr. _Kirk _would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience."

"Certainly, Mr. Kirkspock."

Jim gave her a stern look.

"Miss, if you don't mind, the name is _Kirk._"

The receptionist beamed at him.

"That's a lovely name, Mr. Kirkspock."

He made his way to the dining lounge, where his ears were immediately assaulted by the blatting of a poorly-tuned trombone. A quick visual sweep of the area told him that the _Love_ _Buffet _tables from earlier had been cleared out, replaced by a makeshift stage, where a quintet of musicians played what sounded like a queasy rendition of Twentieth Century Terran jazz. He groaned inwardly at the sight of their upper-upper-thigh length togas. Strangely enough, he found himself feeling nostalgic for the diapered outfits of the Romance Concierges, if only for the coverage they provided.

_They really shouldn't be playing on an elevated stage,_ he thought grimly, when the trombonist chose that particular moment to tilt his brass. Somehow he doubted that this was what Terran musicians had had in mind when they coined the term "swing music." His appetite completely decimated for the evening, he took a seat at the bar counter and ordered a Bolian beer.

Gradually he became aware of a familiar voice blasting through the cacophony of clinking dishware and bleating music.

"...must think I'm some kind of moron!"

Jim swiveled his bar stool and scanned the room to locate the source of the noise. Sure enough, he spied Norman Stone at a circular table with Joanie seated beside him in an old-fashioned wheelchair. A young waiter hovered near the couple, wringing his hands. Even from the distance, Jim could see the whites of his eyes. Intrigued, he leaned forward and attempted to tune out the surrounding noise and pick up the thread of their conversation**.** He heard an unintelligible mumbling from the waiter, followed by Norman's more audible boom.

"I couldn't care less what it tastes like!"

Another muffled reply.

"Did I _ask _about the nutritional content?"

The waiter hesitated for a handful of seconds, then replied in low, placating tones.

"You're not listening to a fucking word I'm saying!" Norman roared. He pounded the tabletop with his fists, rattling the dishware. Water sloshed from the tumblers. Conversations around them halted. The waiter froze, his lips pulled into a terrified grimace. Jim instantly recognized that look; it was the same look that many a green ensign on his crew had worn when faced with a crisis scenario that had not been covered at the Academy.

Unable to remain a passive observer any longer, Jim hopped off his stool, picked up his bottle, and ambled toward the fracas.

"Norman Stone!" he greeted in his most jovial voice when he approached the table, "How many times are we going to run into each other in a day?"

Norman gaped at him, startled out of his harangue. Jim favored him with his most innocuous smile.

"Enjoying yourselves this evening?" he asked.

"Hardly."

"Oh?" Jim arranged his face into his most Spock-worthy expression of detached curiosity. "What seems to be the problem?"

Rallied by his question, Norman sat up straighter in his seat, his chest and eyes puffing and narrowing respectively.

"I've been coming here with my wife for our anniversary for thirty-three years now," he began. He threw the immobile Joanie a fond look before continuing.

"And on the third day of our vacation, we watch the sunset at the naked beach, and then we come here for supper. Joanie orders the filet mignon—medium-well, with buttered beans and garlic roasted potatoes. Made from scratch. It's tradition. This _idiot _here..."

He jerked a thumb at the waiter, who stood rooted to the spot like an Academy cadet receiving a severe dressing down at a disciplinary hearing.

"...brought her the wrong order once already, and instead of getting it right the second time, he's trying to get away with bringing her _this _crap."

He gestured at the dish in front of Joanie. Jim glanced at the offending cuisine: a butter-bathed assortment of beans and roasted potatoes surrounding a plump lump of bacon-wrapped beef.

"Clearly this is the meal you just finished describing," he said.

Norman shook his head.

"It's _synthesized,_" he spat, glowering at the plate as if it were a nestful of Osaarian dung worms.

"And is there any reason in particular why you wouldn't want Joanie to enjoy a synthesized meal?" Jim asked.

Emboldened by the presence of a potential ally, the waiter piped up.

"I've been trying to explain that a synthesized meal is just as good as a hand-prepared meal, both in taste and nutritional content," he supplied.

Norman fixed the waiter with the full blast of his scowl. Jim could almost swear that he heard the sound of a soul shriveling.

"I don't give a hoopin' funt about the merits of synthesized food," Norman insisted, his voice saturated with deadly patience. "But what I am interested in knowing is why all these other guests get to enjoy hand-prepared, traditional Terran food—made by trained chefs—while my Joanie gets stuck with some lazy-ass, push-button swill that any idiot with the right food card could make. How is that fair?"

He brandished an index finger at the waiter's chest.

"It's not her fault you botched her order once already, so why are you trying to rip her off a second time? Did you think she wouldn't notice? Did you think she wasn't worth the time it would take the chefs to make another meal from scratch? _Did you_?"

With each question he fired off, the indignation in his voice mounted. The waiter quailed under the volley and shot him Jim helpless glance. Instinctively Jim moved to stand beside him.

"You don't honestly believe that anyone here would deliberately try to insult your wife, do you?" he asked. "Surely, after thirty-three years of coming here, you would have a higher opinion of the staff than that."

Norman hesitated.

"I haven't seen him here before," he protested feebly.

"Which is a good indication that he might be a new," Jim put in. He angled his body toward the waiter.

"Have you been working here long?" he inquired.

The waiter shook his head.

"This is my third week on the job," he said.

"And is it fairly common to replicate the menu items here?" Jim asked.

"Only for the staff, sir. We use the food processors to save time on our own meal breaks, but the guests' food is all made from scratch."

The waiter risked an appeasing glance at Norman.

"Sir, I never meant to insult you or your wife," he said. "It's just that I felt bad about bringing her the wrong dish the first time, and I didn't want her to have a long wait. I know how annoying that can be. I only wanted to save you some time; I never meant any offense."

"Surely, Norman, you can appreciate his good intentions." Jim said. He clapped the waiter on the shoulder and allowed just a hint of condescension to creep into his voice—enough to remind Norman of how much older and wiser he was.

"We've both been there, right? We know what it's like to be young and new on the job, and bursting with ideas on how to improve the system."

The appeal to his kinder nature seemed to wilt some of the older man's righteous indignation. He dropped his gaze to the table.

"I didn't bring my Joanie here to have synthesized food," he said in a tired voice.

"And now that you've made that _abundantly _clear," Jim shot him a pointed look. "I'm sure the chefs would be more than happy to make Joanie a handmade meal while you wait. Peacefully, " he added when he saw Norman opening his mouth to protest.

For a moment, Norman sat motionless, gazing at Joanie as if he expected her to snap to wakefulness and back him up. When she offered him no acknowledgment, he pressed his lips together and nodded his assent.

The waiter collected the rejected plate and scurried away, throwing Jim a grateful look over his shoulder. Norman watched his departure in silence, then unfurled the cloth napkin beside his plate and began to sop up the spilled water on the table. Jim took a slow swig of his beer and contemplated whether he should remain where he was or leave the couple to their privacy. When Norman spoke next, the bleakness in his voice settled the matter.

"Not my finest hour, huh?"

Jim glanced at the older man. His head was so drooped he looked like he had an invisible anvil tied to his beard.

"I'd be worried if it was." Jim said. He smiled to take the edge off his words and took a seat across from the couple. "Your Joanie must really have a grudge against replicated food."

Norman perked up a little at the mention of his wife.

"That lady was born with a golden palate," he said. "Most people can't tell if a meal has been synthesized, but Joanie always said she could. And the Joanie I married would never take a synthesized meal over the real thing. Isn't that right, you old food snob?"

He turned to Joanie and Jim saw him smile for the first time that evening. The fact that Joanie did not return the gesture seemed lost on him.

"So what's your story, James Kirk?" he asked. "I don't see your Vulcan anywhere. You and Spank have some kinda lover's quarrel?"

Jim flinched, taken aback by the sudden about-face in the conversation.

"It's _Spock,_" he corrected, "and no, there's no quarrel." Seeing the skepticism on the other's face he added, "We just thought we'd give each other some space to pursue our own...personal interests."

He drew a long draught of his beer and pointedly ignored the smirk blooming on the corner's of Norman's mouth.

"You come to couples resort, and this is the best 'personal interest' you can think of?" Norman asked, his voice laced with incredulity. "I would've thought there'd be other things you could be sucking on right now instead of that bottle...and looking a hell of a lot happier about it, too. Either you've got one lousy imagination or you're bullshitting me. Judging from that big trench between your eyebrows, I'm gonna go ahead and guess it's the latter. I know a 'doghouse' face when I see one."

Jim watched Norman tuck into his own neglected meal with a smirk and considered whether it was worth it or not to set him straight. As much as he wanted to resent the smugness on Norman's face, he couldn't help but suspect that it was not generated out of malice, but out of a perverse sense of relief at the possibility that he was not the only one who had made an ass out of himself that evening. A feeling he could wholeheartedly relate to. He settled on a noncommittal shrug.

"Well, try not to let it get to you too much, son," Norman continued in a kinder voice. "Go and have a time out from Spock if you think you need one, but don't drag it out too long. I'm not the kind of guy who likes to force his opinions on others, but if I could give you just one piece of relationship advice, it's that unless you're a Klingon, nothing good will ever come out of going to bed angry with your sweetie."

He nodded at his own sagacity and bit into his dinner roll.

XXX

Although he would not have imagined that a visit founded on a tantrum could be anything but uncomfortable, Jim soon found himself grateful for the company. A man with a scope of conversation that rivaled his girth, Norman was more than happy to steer the discussion away from Spock-infested waters, and Jim was more than happy to let him. Pausing only to sneak in the occasional spoonful of French onion soup, Norman regaled him with stories of his early days on Jaris II as a Kestorian crystal miner who had been assigned the same shift as a "foxy little potty mouth" named Joanie.

"I've never met anyone who could cuss quite like Joanie," Norman admitted with a proud grin. "She's the only woman I've ever known whose farts were more ladylike than her conversation. Compared to the crudeness that came outta her mouth, the stuff that came from her ass was purer than the flapping of angel wings."

He reached for his wife's hand without breaking eye-contact with Jim.

"Still, it didn't take me long to fall for her. Thought I did a good job of hiding it, too." He smiled ruefully. "I should've known better than to try and sneak it by a Jarillian woman. I knew the jig was up the day she showed up for shift calling me 'Normanjoanie.'"

He lifted Joanie's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her knuckles.

Although Joanie's participation in the visit was strictly limited to her physical presence, Jim was impressed by the lengths to which Norman went to include her. Whether it was by patting her hand, stroking her hair, or tossing out the occasional "Right, Joanie?" in the middle of his stories, the older man seemed determined to keep her in the forefront of his mind.

As the evening wore on, Jim found himself sneaking glances at Joanie's slack face, wishing that she would do something—anything—to acknowledge her husband. As much as he admired Norman's continued affection for his wife, he couldn't help but feel saddened by the lack of reciprocation. It was like watching a one-sided relationship between a man and a storefront mannequin. Not that Norman seemed to mind. Seemingly undaunted by her averted gaze and sagging mouth, he continued his repertoire of anecdotes, nodding and bobbing his head so enthusiastically as he spoke that Jim kept waiting for him to accidentally plunge his beard into his soup.

By the time the waiter returned with Joanie's meal, Norman's mood had improved so dramatically that he greeted the youth like a long-lost friend and promised him a generous tip for his trouble.

He waited until the waiter was out of sight before pushing his own bowl aside and scooting his chair closer to his wife. Jim glanced at the mound of food on Joanie's plate and and sent him a quizzical look.

"Norman, are you sure Joanie will be able to manage a meal like this?" he asked.

"Are you kidding? Her doctors have her on a diet of pureed food cubes. Even if she _could_ chew this stuff on her own, it would do a number on her digestive system."

"Then why..."

"...did I freak out over a meal she can't even eat?" Norman finished for him. He smiled at Jim's confusion. "She might not be able to eat this stuff, but that doesn't mean that she can't _enjoy _it. Here, I'll show you."

He lifted Joanie's plate and held it close to her face.

"Watch her closely," he instructed.

Jim fixed his eyes on the diminutive woman in the wheelchair and waited. At first, she remained unchanged, her face locked in a perpetual blinking grimace. Then, as if in response to the warm currents of aroma rising from the food, her nostrils began to flare.

"Attagirl, Joanie," Norman whispered.

Joanie's features began to soften. The rapid-fire blinking ceased. Her lips, loosely parted, drew together in a soft pucker. For just an instant, Jim saw the Jarillian woman's eyes flicker in Norman's direction before her eyelids fluttered shut.

Jim Kirk did not consider himself a fanciful man. Although he would never come close to matching Spock's level of pragmatism, he had little use for the mysterious or the whimsical. As he contemplated the transformation that had stolen over Joanie's face, his rational mind told him that whatever her illness, she had obviously retained the sense of smell, that the familiar scent had merely stimulated some long-dormant neural pathways. But when he considered the way Norman's eyes shone as he regarded his wife, he couldn't help but feel as if he had just witnessed something straight out of a fairy tale—the glimpse of a captive princess through prison windows. This was not the face of a woman beset by a debilitating illness. This was the face of a woman inhaling the essence of her favorite meal—her gourmet soul restored by the scent of potatoes and prime beef.

When Norman finally spoke, his voice was softer than Jim had ever heard it before.

"The first time I saw Joanie make this face was during our first date. I took her to some ritzy, overpriced restaurant after work, and she had a Delovian souffle. She took one bite of the stuff and told me she was having a 'foodgasm.' _This_ is the expression she wore. She only makes it for the best of foods." He paused, and Jim saw the plate tremble briefly before he steadied it again.

"This look is one of the only things that she has in common with the woman I married...at least, on the outside...and she's making it less and less. Most days, it's only ticcing and bodily functions."

He winced, as if it pained him to speak the words aloud.

"I'm no dreamer, James. I don't expect that bringing Joanie to the _Cove_ and doing all the things we used to do will somehow restore her. My Joanie will never speak to me or kiss me again. That part of our marriage is over. But if there is any chance that she can still understand anything I say or do, then I have to reach her...let her know that she will always be my Joanie-girl...the belle of the ball, who deserves nothing but the finest filet mignon, prepared by the best chefs."

Jim nodded his head, gripped with a sudden insight.

"She wouldn't have reacted this way for synthesized food," he stated. No wonder the older man had acted so boorishly.

Norman smiled.

"How do you think I knew to send the other meal back in the first place?"

"It's a shame about all that wasted food, though." Jim said. Norman shrugged.

"That's why it's a hell of an inconvenience to love another person, James; no matter your best intentions, there's always a price."

XXX

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Not wanting to encroach on what was obviously a special time for Norman, Jim diverted his attention to the dance floor, where several couples had gathered to sway in time to the music. He smiled to himself as he watched a pair of innamoratos waltzing in tandem, so attuned to each other's movements that it was impossible to tell who was leading whom. Briefly, he allowed himself to mentally superimpose Spock's and his faces onto their bodies, wondering if their natural trust and symbiosis would translate into something that didn't involve keeping each other alive in a crisis. The fantasy immediately evaporated when his mind painted a clearer picture of the bored disdain that would likely adorn the Vulcan's face during the entire activity.

He stifled a sigh and drained the remainder of his beer to brace himself against the bland, impassive face that swam before his mind's eye—the face that awaited his return to their shared suite. No doubt Spock was deep into his meditation now, summoning up every Vulcan mental discipline to dissect, analyze, and ultimately discard the memories of shared embraces and spoken confessions. Not that he could expect anything less from the same man who once coolly requested to go over duty rosters with him a mere six hours after trying to kill him in a hormone-induced rage. But still...was it too much to hope for that the Vulcan had at least deposited the memory of their encounter into a mental database entitled, "Illogical Things I Would Do Again If I Were Human?"

Norman's voice jarred him from his musings.

"You're missing your sweetie."

Jim glanced up sharply.

"Don't bother trying to argue me on this one, son," Norman warned. "If there's one thing I've been forced to learn since Joanie's illness, it's the importance of picking up on the subtle things. And _you_, my friend, are about as subtle as a fart on a wood chair. Instead of sitting here and moping, why don't you go fetch that Vulcan of yours and take him for a twirl on the dance floor?"

Jim smirked as the mental picture of waltzing with the sour-faced Spock resurfaced.

"Clearly you are not familiar with the Vulcan race," he said.

"No, I guess not," Norman agreed readily. "Everything I thought I knew about em' was shot to shit the moment I saw ol' Perogie Ears making googly eyes at you at the naked beach."

Jim flinched at the memory. He was about to make a disparaging retort when a sudden thought occurred to him: Norman had taken the _J'seya yi sleya _ himself once. He leaned forward in his seat.

"You mentioned earlier that you and Joanie had your bodies painted for your wedding," he said.

"The _J'seya yi sleya? _Yeah, it's pretty standard around here."

"If I remember correctly, you referred to it as 'sexypaint.'"

"Sexypaint?" Norman gave him a curious glance, then smiled at the recollection. "Oh, that. That's just another one of Joanie's word smooshies. She has a thing for sticking words together. Must be a Jarillian trait."

"Do you remember experiencing anything...out of the ordinary after the painting?" Jim asked. "Any different behaviors? Physiological changes? Unusual though processes?"

Norman set Joanie's plate down, thought for a few seconds, then shook his head.

"No, nothing's coming to mind. Mind you, that was over thirty years ago. I was probably too distracted by all the rockin' newlywed sex to worry about unusual symptoms."

"So is it fair to say that there was an increase of, ah, amorous feelings after taking the _J'seya yi sleya_?" Jim asked.

Norman made an incredulous face at him.

"Kid, it was my honeymoon...whadaya think?"

Jim grinned and tried a different approach.

"Does the bodypaint contain any special ingredients that you are aware of?" he asked.

"Water, liquid latex, some kind of coloring agent..." Norman shrugged. "I dunno, what do they normally use for that kind of stuff?" He leaned forward, turning an intense gaze upon him.

"I'm surprised you're so interested in the _J'seya yi sleya, _seeing as you were so eager to get rid of your own," he said.

When Jim offered no response, he added,

"This has to do with your Vulcan and why he's not with you right now, doesn't it?"

Jim looked away and Norman chuckled.

"Subtlety, James. You have none."

Jim frowned, torn between his desire to finally have some answers and his instinct to protect Spock's inherent sense of privacy.

"Let's just say that Spock had a very...unexpected reaction to the bodypaint, " he hedged.

Norman said nothing, clearly waiting for him to continue. Jim sighed.

"He seemed to believe that the _J'seya yi sleya_ contained certain...aphrodisiac qualities," he added.

_Sorry, Spock._

"That shouldn't be too much of a surprise, right?" Norman said. "I mean, what's an aphrodisiac but something that makes you horny? A guy sees his partner walking around a naked beach with paint on his pecker—that's bound to count as an aphrodisiac, if you ask me."

"Not if you're a Vulcan," Jim said in a low voice.

He didn't know if it was the alcohol getting to him, or if Norman's own openness about his personal life had fostered a desire to reciprocate the older man's trust, but before he could talk himself out of it, he found himself telling Norman everything. The older man's face vacillated from confusion to surprise to amusement as Jim relayed the events surrounding his vacation with Spock. Although a part of Jim wanted to berate himself for being so liberal with the details about his strange friendship with Spock, he couldn't deny how great it felt to finally have someone to confide in. He couldn't remember the last time he had engaged in a lengthy conversation where he didn't have to weigh his words against the possibility of being deemed "unfit for command."

When he finally finished, Norman sat back in his seat with a bewildered expression on his face.

"And here I thought I was the only guy at this place who wasn't getting laid tonight," he muttered. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and downed the remainder of his water. Jim chuckled, strangely relieved by the older man's levity

"Well, I don't know what you want me to tell you, James," Norman said, shaking is head. "I've lived on Jaris II thirty-seven years now and I've seen plenty of paint jobs—the traditional and the tourist kind—but I've never heard of any of them causing a case of 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Sex.' You sure your buddy doesn't just have the hots for you?"

Jim made a face at him. "You _have _noticed the ears, right?"

"Yeah, they're kinda hard to miss. But best as I can figure, there's a bit of a distance between a man's ears and his schlong. And Spock's a tall guy." The grin on Norman's face melted away when Jim gave him a sour look. He let out an exasperated sigh.

"If you want my opinion, you're spending way too much time brooding over something you could be enjoying. The guy agreed to vacation with you at a lovers resort, for cripes sake. Relax! Pull out the stick and make way for the dick! At the very least, be grateful for what you do have with Spock. He loves you."

Jim looked away.

"Now you're starting to sound like Droovin," he muttered.

"I'll take that as a compliment. People like Droovin are the reason I keep coming here," Norman insisted.

"How so?"

Norman hesitated and stole a quick glance at his wife before continuing.

"Strangers look at Joanie and see a woman with Bornik's Disease. Friends and family look at her as if she is a preserved corpse, and they grieve for the woman they remember. People like Droovin look at Joanie and see 'Joanienorman,' the woman I married...a woman who enjoys beaches and sunsets and filet mignon." His voice roughened. "A woman who loves me."

Jim frowned, recalling the moment on the beach when Droovin had stared intently into Joanie's face and declared, "She's in there, Mr. Normanjoanie...and she loves you." At the time he had been too preoccupied with thoughts of his impending liaison with Spock to pay much attention, but in retrospect, the man-cherub's words seemed inordinately presumptuous, if not irresponsible.

"The last thing I want is to seem indifferent to your situation, but has it ever occurred to you that he might've been offering you false hope—telling you what you want to hear?" he asked.

He fully expected the older man to grow defensive or erupt in a stream of profanity, but to his surprise, Norman just chuckled and waved his words away.

"Clearly you are not familiar with the Jarillian race," Norman replied, his voice faintly mocking. "That kid might be walking around in a diaper, but don't think for a second that he's full of shit. If Droovin tells me that my Joanie still loves me, I'd be an idiot not to believe him." He leaned forward, pointing his finger across the table at him. "And you would do well to do the same. No decent Jarillian would ever dick around about that kind of stuff. Whatever you and Spock have going on, if it's enough to get you a paint job and a name like 'Kirkspock,' it's enough to count as a love-bond."

Jim's mind raced as he considered the implications of Norman's words.

"From the moment Spock and I arrived here, the staff have refused to call us by our given names—it's been nothing but 'Kirkspock' and 'Spockkirk.'" He narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting that there is a specific reason for that...a reason that goes beyond our being at a couples resort?"

"Now that's something you're gonna have to take up with an actual Jarillian," Norman replied.

"Why?"

"Privileged information, son. Not every Jarillian is comfortable with the idea of filling outworlders in on the inner workings of their society. I probably shouldn't have told you as much as I have."

Jim favored the older man with his most disarming grin.

"But why stop when you're on a roll?"

Norman laughed.

"Nice try. I might have the citizenship, that that doesn't make me an ambassador." Seeing the frustration on Jim's face, he relented a little. "I will tell you this, though: you're asking the wrong questions. If were you, I'd stop trying to figure out why Spock reacted to the bodypaint, when the question you _should_ be asking is why you were singled out to receive a paint job in the first place."

Before Jim could even begin to formulate a follow-up question in response to the information he had just received, the air was filled with the sound of a prolonged wet rumble, followed by a whispered curse from Norman. A cursory glance at the scarlet flush on the older man's face confirmed his recognition of the sound. Funny how a man who could make so many casual references to bodily functions could look so mortified when confronted with the real thing.

"Sorry James, but I think that's Joanie's way of telling me that supper's over. I don't wanna run out on you or anything, but..."

"It's perfectly understandable," Jim assured him. He sent a concerned glance in Joanie's direction. "Will she be alright?"

"Nothing a little clean-up won't help, but it's best if I don't put it off. You're never too old to get diaper rash."

Norman rose from his seat and gripped the handles of Joanie's wheelchair, maneuvering it away from the table. He paused and looked at Jim with a pensive expression on his face.

"Hey James, have you ever heard of that old game Earth kids play with flowers? The one where they rip the petals off and say, 'He loves me, he loves me not'?"

Jim nodded his head. Norman regarded him solemnly

"Don't play that game with your Vulcan...it isn't worth it. I know you want answers, but if you get too caught up in picking apart and analyzing all the details, you could end up destroying something beautiful. Go talk to a Jarillian if you think it will help, see what you can find out, but don't mangle a good thing if you don't have to. Now if you'll excuse me, my wife and I have a little 'spa session' to attend. Help yourself to the filet mignon."

With that, he gave Jim a two-fingered farewell salute, turned, and wheeled Joanie away from the table, leaving Jim with a plateful of untouched food and a head full of thoughts.

**So I know the story has taken an angstier turn in the last couple of chapters, but just so you're aware, I have no intention of turning this fic into a huge bummer-fest. This is about as heavy as the story is going to get...I still have a whole lotta crack and pervy wish-fulfillment to get out of my system! ^_^**


	11. Chapter 11

**CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC**

**...I'm ba-ack!  
**

**A million and one heartfelt apologies to anyone who thought that I had abandoned this story. This was never the case, I promise. As much as I would love to blame it on real life getting in the way, the truth is that I actually spent countless hours working on this chappie, most of which seemed to involve staring at a blank computer monitor. By now I believe I've learned my lesson about making grandiose promises of speedy updates, so instead let me just offer you my solemn Spockaholic word that no matter how long it takes, I WILL see this story through to the end.  
**

**That said, it's freakin' GREAT to be back! ^_^  
**

**There's not a whole lot of warnings for this chapter, unless you believe that one should warn for mild crack and slightly OOC situations. I'm sorry to say that this will be another Spockless chapter as well. As much as I wanted to include him, I had to keep him out so I could move the plot forward a bit more. But that doesn't mean that I won't make good on my promise from my previous A/N to make it up in awkward sexual tension. It's-a-coming! Cheers!  
**

The _Venus Ball _was in full swing.

By the time the waiter had returned to clear the dishes away from the table, the crowd in the dining lounge had quadrupled. The dance floor had erupted into a flurry of flailing limbs as hotel staff and guest alike danced in a mishmash of Terran dance styles. Jim was amused to note that the Romance Concierges had abandoned their drab white diapers in favor of sparkly golds that twinkled under the light of the chandeliers. Evening formal wear, no doubt. Driven to a giddy frenzy by the jazz band, they danced with the guests and each other indiscriminately. Moulted wing feathers littered the dance floor.

Nursing a second Bolian beer, Jim kept an eye on the revelries, waiting for Droovin to make an appearance. Despite the lobby receptionist's claim that he would be in attendance at the ball, Jim had yet to see a glimpse of his curly head through the assortment of diapers and wings. He wondered if it was just as well. Two and a half hours had been more than enough time for Spock to complete his meditation. The longer he stayed away, the greater the risk of looking as if he were avoiding the Vulcan.

Not that he _was_ avoiding the Vulcan, because that would be ridiculous. What reason did he have to stay away from Spock? The man had kissed and propositioned him while under some kind of some personality-altering influence. Compared to some of the other things that Spock had tried to do to him while under a personality-altering influence, this was hardly a blip on the Spockian Catastrophe Radar. If anything, he should be grateful that he had made it out of their encounter with no cuts or bruises to show for it.

And surely the gratitude would come after he had finished his beer and followed it up with three or four more.

Sighing, he reached into the candy dish on the table and pulled out a conversation heart. A morose smile twisted his lips as he recalled using the tiny confections to tease that adorable green blush from Spock's cheeks. Hard to believe that had only been hours ago. After everything that had happened between them, he couldn't imagine ever being able to ruffle Spock like that again.

He turned the candy heart over in his palm and examined the inscription.

_True love._

He winced. There was the rub. The only rub he was likely to get that evening.

He popped the candy into his mouth and crunched it between his molars. It tasted like sweetened dirt.

Glancing up, he gave the crowd another cursory once-over. As expected, he saw no sign of Droovin, but a familiar flash of copper braids caught his eye. He recognized the body artist, Shindylle, dancing with a stout Tellarite man, her lips frozen into a polite grimace of a smile. A sense of renewed hope stirred within him. Who needed Droovin when he could speak to the woman responsible for painting the _J'seya yi sleya? _If anyone could shed some light on the strange events of the day (and without the additional perverted commentary) it was she.

Resisting the temptation to stride onto the dance floor and accost her that instant, Jim forced himself to remain at the table and let her finish her dance. A faint smile played on his lips as he watched her hobbling with the Tellarite man. From the looks of it, she was attempting to teach her partner a basic box step, and, if her frequent grimaces were any indication, she was receiving a crash course in Tellarite physiology, namely cloven feet. He hoped for her sake that her go go boots were reinforced.

The jazz band blustered out the final notes of their song and exited the stage to a perfunctory staccato of applause. Shindylle patted the Tellarite man on the shoulder in farewell and they parted ways. She limped towards a beverage table near the edge of the dance floor and sank into one of the vacant chairs. Jim gave her a moment to rotate her ankles and massage her toes through the sparkly gold fabric of her boots before making his approach.

"I trust they give you hazard pay for giving dance lessons to Tellarites?" he said in greeting.

Shindylle glanced up and threw him a pained smile.

"No such luck, Mr. Kirkspock," she said. She straightened in her chair and threw a curious look at the empty space at Jim's right side.

"Where's Mr. Spockkirk?" she asked.

"He's not as fond of the night life as I am," Jim said. "He's relaxing in our room."

"Aww, that's a shame," Shindylle purred, pulling her lips into a mock pout. "You two would've looked so dashing on the dance floor."

Jim shrugged and made no effort to refute her. No sense arguing against the truth.

He walked over to the beverage table, picked up two crystalline goblets and and them with the deep magenta liquid cascading from the punch fountain. When he returned to Shindylle and held out a drink to her, the grateful smile that began on her face disappeared.

"Something wrong?" Jim asked.

In response, Shindylle grasped his arm with both hands and pushed his sleeve back. A sharp pucker formed on her brow as she studied his bare forearm.

"You removed the _J'seya yi sleya,_" she said. Jim's renewed sense of optimism disintegrated under the acid in her voice.

He cursed inwardly. In his eagerness to get some answers about the _J'seya yi sleya_, he had completely overlooked the possibility that its absence would offend the artist who had painstakingly applied it to his body. The indignation on her face did not bode well. So much for having an easier alternative to conversing with Droovin.

"It couldn't be helped," he said simply. The answer did not seem to mollify her. She released his arm and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

"Were you displeased with it?" she demanded.

"No."

"Was Mr. Spockkirk displeased with it?"

"No."

Which was the understatement of the twenty-third century, if the standing ovation he'd received from Spock's anatomy was anything to go by, Jim thought with a twinge of perverse amusement.

"Well, I certainly hope you had good reason for washing it off," Shindylle said. "I'd hate to think that I wasted a good two hours of my time and talent."

Jim regarded the petulant cast to her lips, sensing that he was on the brink of losing his best chance of getting the information that Norman alluded to. Hating himself for what he was going to do next, he slid into the chair beside her and gave her a lazy smile.

"Oh, it wasn't a waste, believe me," he insisted. He glanced around, as if to make sure no one was listening in, and leaned in closer to her.

"To tell you the truth..." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial purr. "Spock was so...enthusiastic in his admiration of your artwork that I uh, found myself in dire need of a shower shortly after we returned to our bedroom." He ducked his head and added, "You must forgive me if I don't go into further detail."

He held her gaze until a flood of comprehension washed the wounded indignation from her face. He wasn't sure if he liked the smile that replaced it.

"Say no more, Mr. Kirkspock; I completely understand," Shindylle said. Her eyes took on a distant, glassy look. Jim cleared his throat, handed her a drink, and tried not to think about the mental images that were doubtlessly scrolling through her brain.

They sipped their beverages in silence, Jim watching Shindylle out of the corner of his eye as she bounced a leg in time to the recorded classical music that had replaced the live band. When he felt certain that enough time had lapsed to dissipate their previous tension, he rose to his feet and returned their empty goblets to the punch table. When he returned to Shindylle, he offered her a disarming smile.

"Spock may be a lost cause this evening, but I see no reason why _I_ should be deprived of a waltz or two," he said. He bowed and extended his hand. "May I have the pleasure?"

"As long as you promise not to squash my toes," Shindylle said, accepting the proffered hand. Jim helped her to her feet and tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

They made their way to the dance floor, where Jim led Shindylle in a waltz. To his delight, Shindylle proved to be an accomplished dancer, matching the rise and fall of his his steps with practiced ease. Couples around them gave them appreciative smiles as they glided around the dance floor in unison. As much as he would've preferred having Spock in his arms, the enjoyment of dancing with a graceful woman was not lost on him. It was almost enough to tempt him to abandon his inquest. He fought through the fog of complacency, knowing that this could be his one chance at learning the truth behind Spock's behavior.

He waited until they had danced through the first half of _The Blue Danube_ before bringing the subject up.

"I haven't seen anyone else wearing a _J'seya yi sleya,_" he began in what he hoped was an offhand manner. "Are they fairly common here?"

"Not really." Shindylle said. "Most of our guests are Jarillians who want to experience human culture without the hassle of space travel, and the _J'seya yi sleya _would hardly be considered an exotic treat. Most humanoids tend to ask for more iconic body art like flowers and animal patterns."

"Do you make a habit of singling people out to be painted?" Jim asked.

"Only when the inspiration strikes."

"May I ask why you were inspired to paint me?"

Shindylle hesitated, pursing her lips in thought.

"I'm an artist," she said finally "When I see beauty, I'm compelled to paint it. And to me, there's nothing more beautiful than the love-bond between lifemates."

Jim frowned. Love-bonds and lifemates. Always it came down to the same two concepts, even when talking about something as simple as body art. Maybe Norman had been right. Maybe the _J'seya yi sleya _really wasn't the issue he needed to pursue.

"Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but why were you so quick to assume that Spock and I are lifemates? For all you knew, we could have been two friends who were here with other partners, or even two strangers who just happened to strike up a conversation."

Shindylle looked at him for a long time before replying.

"When two people are as attuned as you and Mr. Spockkirk are, it's obvious from the get-go," she said.

"Obvious to everyone?" Jim gave her a pointed look. "Or obvious to a _Jarillian_?"

Shindylle stiffened in his arms.

"What do you mean?" she asked in a low voice.

"Spock and I have served aboard the same ship for four and a half years," Jim told her. "In all that time, never once has anyone suggested that we're more than friends—colleagues. It may interest you to know that the only exceptions have all been citizens of Jaris."

"Well, what can you expect? You are at a couples resort, after all." Shindylle said.

"Only because we were sent here by a Jarillian woman," Jim pointed out.

He relayed the story of Spock's and his meeting with the Head of the Jarillian Medical Research Initiative, which had resulted in their arrival at _Cupid's Cove. _

"Just what are you getting at, Mr. Kirkspock?" Shindylle asked. A wary expression clouded her face.

"Allow me to speak plainly," Jim began. "Whatever I may have led you to believe about the nature of my relationship with Spock, the truth is that we are not romantically involved. But that hasn't stopped any Jarillian I've talked to from believing otherwise...even before our arrival at the _Cove. _"

He twirled her in a circle to give her time to process that bit of information. By the time she completed her revolution, her face had reverted back to the shocked indignation she had worn when she had realized that his bodypaint was missing. No doubt she had figured out that he had been putting her on about why he had washed it off. He pressed on before she could address it.

"Considering that Spock's and my relationship has only ever been platonic, the only way your claim that we're lifemates can be true is if you know something about us that we don't. And the only way you could know something about us that we don't..." He sucked in a deep breath and went for the kill. "...is if you have some sort of ability a racial ability that enables you to discern it."

Shindylle stopped dancing so abruptly that Jim had to sidestep to avoid tripping over her feet.

"That's a large assumption," she said, not quite looking at him. She pulled a thin braid out from behind her ear and tugged on it idly.

"Is it?" Jim countered. He narrowed his eyes. "Out of all the couples on the beach today hundreds of people you chose to approach us. _Why_?"

"Like I said, I was inspired."

"By our love-bond?" Jim said dubiously. "A love-bond that we ourselves were never aware of?"

The only answer he received was a tightening of the jaw and more braid tugging.

Desperate, Jim reached towards her and clasped her shoulders.

"Try and help me understand. You come from a people who claim to hold the love-bond in highest esteem. And yet, without knowing anything about us, you believed that such a bond exists between Spock and myself—enough to warrant a _J'seya yi sleya. _Which would you rather have me believe: that you did so for a reason, or that you're willing to peddle a sacred ritual as a tourist attraction?"

Shindylle shook her head and regarded him with a sympathetic expression.

"I don't expect you to understand, Mr. Kirkspock," she said.

Jim gave her an icy smile.

"Enlighten me," he said.

Shindylle shook her head.

"That's not my job," she said. "If you're so worried about whether you and Mr. Spockkirk have a love-bond or not, stop wasting your time with me and go talk to _him_ about it."

"How do you do it, Shindylle?" Jim demanded, "Are you a telepath? An empath?"

Someone tapped Jim on the shoulder.

"Good evening, Mr. Kirkspock," a familiar, breezy voice greeted.

Jim turned around. Resplendent in a sparkly gold diaper, Droovin dipped his torso in a slight bow and offered him an ingratiating smile.

"You must forgive me, but when I saw you dancing with the loveliest woman in the room..." Droovin shifted his eyes to Shindylle and held her gaze until her cheeks pinkened under the attention. "...I couldn't help but want to be a part of it."

For a moment, the two Jarillians stood there, gazes locked, and Jim had the distinct impression that he was caught in the crossfire of that unique brand of almost-telepathy that only occurs between friends whose primary form of communication consists of pointed glances and knowing smiles. But before he could begin to decipher it, Droovin continued.

"Would you permit me the impudence of cutting in?"

"Actually " Jim began.

"We were just finishing up," Shindylle interrupted. She pivoted towards Jim, all smiles once again.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Kirkspock," she said. "You're a terrific dancer—a credit to your race—but I believe I've monopolized enough of your time for one evening. If you'll excuse me..."

She turned towards Droovin expectantly, but rather than approach her, the man-cherub sauntered towards Jim and wound his arms around his neck. Jim opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when he looked over Droovin's shoulder and saw Shindylle beaming triumphantly at him.

She pivoted on her heels and began walking away.

"Have fun!" she called over her shoulder.

Although Droovin had proven himself a capable watercraft pilot and volleyball player throughout the day, it soon became apparent that dancing with guests must not be part of his usual duty roster. Unlike the fleet-footed Shindylle, who had flitted and twirled around the floor as if she had learned to dance before she could walk, Droovin seemed perfectly content with simply holding Jim's shoulders and shuffling from side to side like an adolescent at his first junior prom. Not that it bothered Jim. Years of experience attending diplomatic functions had long since cultivated within him an easy acceptance of dance partners, regardless of gender, species or ability. What he did find a lot more difficult to tolerate, however, was the constant litany of diaper _crinkles_ that accompanied each step, sounding strangely like distant ocean waves. Combined with the soft strains of Chopin playing over the sound system, it was like listening to relaxation music from hell.

"Do you _have _to dance so closely?" he grumbled.

"So sorry sir," Droovin said, sounding anything but contrite. "It's just that you smell fantastic. I'm afraid I have a bit of a weakness for the scent of strawberry body soap. You must've had one _delicious_ shower." He buried the tip of his nose into the crook of Jim's neck and snuffled in a deep breath."Nummy nummy _num_."

Jim tightened his hold on Droovin's shoulders.

"I'll thank you to keep your nose to yourself," he growled.

"Oh, relax!" Droovin said. "For a man on vacation, you're much too uptight." He shook his head and gave him a pitying glance. "I don't know how Mr. Spockkirk puts up with you," he added.

Jim chose to ignore that statement.

"Speaking of Mr. Spockkirk..."

Jim turned a hard stare at him, ready to go to battle at the first hint of an off-color statement.

_Just give me one reason..._

"...I noticed that he isn't with you this evening. Is he alright?"

Something inside of Jim softened at the concern in Droovin's voice. Whatever his personal feelings for the Jarillian, he had to admit that Droovin had never been anything but sincere in his support of Spock's and his supposed relationship. Maybe it was time cut him a break. The man was only trying to do his job, after all. He relaxed his grip on Droovin's shoulders.

"He's fine," he said. "Everything's fine."

Droovin beamed at him.

"I knew it would be. He loves you, you know."

Jim winced.

"So you've mentioned," he said wearily.

Droovin gave him a steady glance.

"Do you believe it yet?" he asked.

Jim paused. As much as he was loath to confide in the man-cherub about anything Spock-related, he was running out of people who could potentially give him the information he needed. Unless he was willing to turn a simple shore leave into an all-out inquisition—something he doubted Spock would appreciate, given the subject in question—he'd better take help where he could get it.

"I'm open to persuasion," he said cautiously.

He braced himself for a fit of giddy histrionics, but to his surprise, the Romance Concierge only regarded him solemnly for several seconds before nodding his head.

"I suppose that's a start," Droovin said. "So tell me, Mr. Kirkspock; how would you like me to persuade you?"

"You can start by giving me some information," Jim told him. "I've heard it suggested that there is a reason why Jarillian people believe that Spock and I are lifemates—a reason that has less to do with us, and more to do with the Jarillian race. I want to know what that reason is."

"Is that what you were talking to Shindylle about?" Droovin asked. He shook his head and giggled. "No wonder she gave me the signal!"

"Signal? What signal?"

"Oh it's nothing, just a bit of body language," Droovin said airily. "Sometimes our line of work requires us to deal with difficult people. Shindylle and I have worked out a system to let each other know when one of us needs rescuing."

"You're deflecting the issue. Are you going to tell me or not?"

For the first time that day, Jim heard Droovin sigh.

"You must understand that it isn't easy to talk about these sorts of things with offworlders," Droovin said. "You've put me in a difficult position, sir."

"Difficult how?" Jim pressed. "Is it a taboo subject?"

"It depends on who you ask. Some Jarillians feel very strongly against sharing too much of themselves with those who might not understand."

"Some Jarillians," Jim repeated. He gave Droovin a measured glance. "But not all?"

"No, not all," Droovin said. "Some Jarillians believe that their...unique perspective on the universe puts them in a position to help others." He pressed closer to Jim and spoke in a hushed voice. "_Some_ Jarillians believe that much can be gained when people help each other."

"And are you in a particularly helpful mood today, Mr. Droovin?" Jim asked.

"I could be...provided that my generosity is reciprocated."

Jim narrowed his eyes.

"Explain."

"You've heard that my father, Gorvin, was once a Romance Concierge himself, correct?" Droovin began.

Jim thought back to his visit with Norman and Joanie on the beach.

"He attended Norman and Joanie Stone during their honeymoon," he said.

"And every vacation afterward, for the next twelve years," Droovin added. "Eventually he worked his way up to the position of hotel manager...which is wonderful for him, but puts me at a disadvantage. As the son of the boss, I'm expected to work twice as hard as my co-workers to be considered for a promotion, so as to avoid the appearance of favoritism. That's where you come in."

"Alright, you have my attention," Jim said. He lowered his voice and added, "But bear in mind that my mind tends to wander when conversations take an unethical turn."

He meant it as a warning, but rather than have the intended effect, it only served to widen the man-cherub's customary grin.

"Now really, Mr. Kirkspock! I would never ask you to do anything unseemly. You simply _must_ get your mind out of the gutter."

Jim resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Just tell me what you want," he said flatly.

"At the end of the month, our Head Romance Concierge is transferring to one of our sister resorts, which means that the position of Grand Cupid will need to be filled," Droovin said. "On Jaris, it's customary for satisfied customers to leave letters of commendation for public service and hospitality workers who provide exceptional service. These letters are taken into consideration when deciding which employees are eligible for a promotion. If I want to be considered a candidate to move up to Grand Cupid, I must earn at least twenty letters of commendation—twice as many as my colleagues. "

"This letter of commendation...is that what you're asking from me?" Jim asked.

A hopeful light sparked in the Jarillian's eyes. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished.

"Not quite," Droovin said, a note of regret in his voice. "As wonderful as that would be, I couldn't accept it in good conscience if I didn't feel like I earned it properly." He shook his head. "What I want is to give you the opportunity to decide for yourself if I am worthy of one."

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Simply by letting me do my job. Relax, enjoy the pleasure of Mr. Spockkirk's company, and allow me to plan your itinerary for the remainder of your visit. In exchange, I will give you the information you seek on the final night of your stay here. If, at the end of your visit, you feel that I have succeeded in my duties as your personal Romance Concierge, you may write me a letter of commendation. But that is strictly up to you; I will tell you what you wish to know, regardless of your decision."

"You want me to give you control over Spock's and my vacation?" Jim said incredulously. He stared at the Jarillian, not knowing whether to shudder or laugh at the thought. If there was a worse tradeoff for the information he wanted, he certainly wasn't imaginative enough to picture it.

Droovin, however, was looking at him as if he had made the most reasonable of requests.

"I'm not asking for anything more than what is customary at _Cupid's Cove,_" he said. "You want to woo Mr. Spockkirk, right? Let me help you. It _is _my job, and I daresay I'm rather good at it."

This time Jim knew he wanted to laugh. Woo Spock? Thank God the Vulcan wasn't around to hear this. Otherwise, he would have to spend the rest of vacation scraping his right eyebrow off the ceiling. He wanted to tell Droovin as much, but seeing the earnestness on his face, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Better to let him down gently.

"It's a generous offer, but you needn't go through so much trouble on my account," he said, his voice oozing with sincerity. "Why not just answer my questions tonight and spare yourself the extra legwork? I'd be happy to write you a letter of commendation in return;I'd even do it this evening, if you wanted. If you're worried about earning it fairly, I can assure you that you would be. I may not always agree with your, ah, unique style of hospitality, but I can recognize a dedicated employee when I see one." He turned his most charming smile on the Jarillian and waited for him to capitulate.

"My deepest apologies, Mr. Kirkspock, but I must decline."

Jim dropped his smile.

"Mind telling me why?"

"It's for your own benefit. If you can't even believe me when I tell you that Mr. Spockkirk loves you, how can I expect you to handle it when I tell you how I came by that knowledge?"

"Why don't you just tell me and find out?"

Droovin chuckled as if he were a small child who had just asked for three servings of ice cream before bedtime.

"All in good time, sir. And that's precisely what I'm trying to buy you—time for you to think things over and decide whether you truly you believe you're ready to receive the answers to your questions. You are seeking knowledge that could permanently alter your relationship with Mr. Spockkirk. What better way for you to decide if you're ready for that change than to spend the next two nights being treated as if it has already occurred?"

Jim stared at the Jarillian man, wanting to say something anything to refute him, but to his own surprise, he could not pry his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He could no more ignore the logic in Droovin's words than a trained musician could listen to an orchestral piece without recognizing the time signature.

Which begged the question: what did he intend to do about it?

If he were a sensible man, he would refuse Droovin's offer, march straight back to the honeymoon suite, and attempt to spend the remainder of his vacation with Spock in peace. If he were a sensible man, he would honor Spock's Vulcan principles and commit to maintaining the status quo of their relationship. He would take no risks, push no boundaries and refuse to sacrifice personal comfort on the alter of knowledge.

_If _ he were a sensible man.

"Alright, fair enough. We'll do it your way. And I hope for both our sakes that I don't come to regret this," he said.

"Never fear, Mr. Kirkspock," Droovin said, "I will put together a Romance Package that will have Mr. Spockkirk eating out of the palm of your hand. Kinky, yes?" he added with a wink.

Jim sighed. He was regretting it already.

He started to tell Droovin as much, but stopped when he noticed that the man-cherub was looking past him. His internal klaxon began wailed to life when he saw the familiar, licentious grin spreading across his face.

"Do you trust me, Mr. Kirkspock?" Droovin asked.

"Not particularly."

Droovin slid a hand down the length of Jim's arm and clasped his hand. He rested his other hand Jim's hip.

"Then I suggest you start. _Now._"

Before Jim could protest, the man-cherub stepped toward him, sealing away any respectable distance between them, and began swaying from side to side.

"What do you think you're—"

"_Trust me,_" Droovin whispered into his ear.

"Like hell I will!"

Jim wrenched himself out of the man-cherub's grasp and took a step backward. He collided into a solid torso. Warm hands caught him by the biceps, steadying him.

His heart lurched as a rich voice rumbled into his ear:

"Is everything alright, Captain?"

**Thanks to everyone who has taken an interest in this story, whether by actively giving feedback or silently lurking. If there is one thing that keeps me smiling, even when the writing gets writer's blocky, it's knowing that there are other people out there who understand the awesomeness that is K/S. You guys rule! **


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